Exile
by bennybear
Summary: After the war, Draco is saved by his late grandfather's foresight. With his unanswered questions outnumbering the stars in the sky, he struggles to come to terms with reality. Will he fail yet again? Canon compliant. Prequel to my next-generation-series.
1. Part 01

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

... 

Author's notes:

#1  
"Exile" is a prequel to my next-generation-series.  
In _Here is to Friendship_, Scorpius wonders how the pathetic teen wizard of Monique Vallon's report did transform into his dad.  
This fic is an attempt to answer that question.

#2  
The fic complies with canon and is based on the Bloomsbury edition of the Harry Potter series. However, pieces of information that aren't given in the original books may be ignored.

#3  
Many thanks go to Athaeth for beta reading. 

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... 

1. Ignominy 

"Let's go home while we can."

"The boy has a point, Lucius," his mother said. She paused to watch Weasley and Granger walk by. There was a space between them as they walked, wide enough for a third person. "We shouldn't linger here until the initial euphoria evaporates," she continued once the Gryffindors were out of hearing. "Someone might think of rounding up members of the old families."

"Father, _please_."

And for once his father saw reason. 

... 

The Aurors came at noon the next day.

He simply put down the wand he had picked up somewhere in a Hogwarts corridor.

His mother wore an air of indignation; his father snorted at the representatives of the new authority. Neither of his parents offered any real resistance, though.

"Don't tell them anything," his mother hissed before she was led away.

His father said nothing. He was busy walking like a true Malfoy – erect and proud. 

... 

Two Aurors Apparated him to the Ministry where he was escorted to a room on the fifth level.

A middle-aged woman he had never seen before offered him a chair. She spoke with a faint, foreign accent – French, but not quite – as she introduced herself and her assistant.

"Tell us your name, please," she said.

"Draco Ophiuchus Malfoy," he answered despite his mother's whispered words. They knew anyway.

"Date of birth?"

"Fifth of June, 1980."

"When did you join Voldemort?"

He winced at the name.

"Well?" the woman prompted when he didn't answer.

Eleventh of July, 1996, at half past two in the morning. He had been shaking with cold – and with something else. He hadn't known that he was to take the oath when his aunt had dragged him from his bed.

And then, while the fresh Mark had still burned like hot oil, he had been entrusted with a mission. That had been the moment when he had thought the scene wasn't real, that he was having a nightmare. _Kill Dumbledore, and you will be redeemed. Fail, and you will die, and your parents along with you..._

It hadn't been a nightmare. The Mark had still been there a week later, still hurting. Even after months, it had still been sensitive to the mere touch.

The task, on the other hand, hadn't looked too bad once he had thought it over. As a student, he should find plenty of opportunity to meet the headmaster of his school and get him within wand range. Of course, he hadn't wasted a millisecond thinking about a duel. He'd thought of creeping up on the old man from behind, of ambushing him, of something like that.

The tricky part had been how to get away afterwards.

He had never been ordered to provide a way of letting Death Eaters into the castle. No, the Vanishing Cabinet had been Draco's own idea; he had needed a means of escape.

Unfortunately, in a moment of weakness – in yet another moment of weakness, a weakness that had turned out to be the defining trait in his character – he had revealed the plan to his mother because she had been so worried. Aunt Bellatrix had eavesdropped on them, and that had given the matter an additional twist.

"Mister Malfoy," the woman's voice brought him back to the present. "You did join Voldemort, didn't you?"

"Of course, he did!" her assistant suddenly barked. "Honestly, Monique, why do we have to waste our time with this nonsense? Just chuck the bunch of them into Azkaban and be done with!"

"That would be vengeance, not justice."

"So what?" the man demanded.

The women shook her head. Sighing, she got up and walked over to a battered sideboard on which sat a number of glasses and a bulky carafe filled with pumpkin juice. She poured two glasses. One, she set down in front of her assistant, telling him to drink and to get a grip on himself. She took a swig from the other one. Then, apparently as an afterthought, she poured a third glass and handed it to Draco.

"Well, gentlemen, now that we 'ave calmed down-"

"I haven't!" the man snapped. "And I won't. I won't play nice with Death Eaters... Did you just call him a _gentleman_? Well, maybe it's your English. I tell you something: They are _no_ _gentlemen_, they are _criminals_. And I'm off."

He left, slamming the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," the woman apologised. "I may not continue the interrogation without a witness."

She finished her drink. Then she said something about regulations and observing protocol and that she would therefore go and search for her assistant or find somebody else who could replace him. She also reminded Draco that there were guards right outside the door. And she used the word _please_ again. 

... 

Draco sat there, staring at the drink in his hand. He tried to think, but he didn't get very far. The whole event seemed surreal. _Gentlemen... please, Mr_ _Malfoy.._. He had no idea who this strange woman was.

He waited.

Time dragged on endlessly; nobody came back.

Eventually, he started sipping his juice. 

... 

2. Failing Again 

His brain felt as if it was filled with something soft and fuzzy. He couldn't see properly. Random shapes and colours drifted by. Where was he?

He was in a sitting position.

Slowly, something came into focus. Rimless glasses. A neatly trimmed beard. A bald head. Someone was touching him gently. No, the grip was a firm one.

There was a voice, too.

"He is fine," the voice stated. "There will only be the usual side effects."

The voice belonged to the man in front of him, a man who increasingly reminded him of a healer from St Mungo's.

Was he ill?

He certainly felt queasy.

When the healer moved away, Draco could take in the room.

The memory flooded back.

He was still at the Ministry, still in the interrogation room. However, that room was now packed with people. About twenty stern faces were looking at him – Proudfoot, Shacklebolt, the eccentric stranger, Margaretha Bell, Mafalda Hopkirk, several others whose name Draco didn't know, and _Potter_. What was _Potter_ doing here?

Potter's expression was as grave as everyone else's. There was no hint of satisfaction, no trace of glee in his eyes. In fact, there wasn't triumph in anyone's eyes. On the contrary, the people surrounding Draco looked rather dismayed. An elderly witch apparently had cried.

What was going on?

The healer's hand still rested on Draco's shoulder.

Had he fainted? In front of all these people?

Draco closed his eyes, convinced that the _real_ humiliation was still to come.

"Mr Malfoy," – Draco snapped to attention as Shacklebolt suddenly addressed him – "You are confined to your parents' house until further notice. You are not to leave the estate in Wiltshire by any means of magic or other. The building will be disconnected from the Floo Network once you'll have been escorted there. Furthermore, you are forbidden to use any form of magic whatsoever for any purpose whatsoever until trial will be held. Do you have questions?"

Draco wanted to ask what had happened, but his tongue failed to form words. 

... 

Two guards Flooed him back to Malfoy Manor; his mother was already there.

Although she was relieved to see him return, she remained tense and irritated. His father had been taken straight to Azkaban after only a short questioning. Lucius Malfoy still had to serve the sentence given to him for the attempted burglary at the Ministry, and he had to serve it twice over because of his breaking out of jail the previous year.

His mother was ranting about how the long-standing and thoroughly ridiculous prejudice against pure-bloods soon would be made the actual law, when his gaze fell on a bowl of fruits that sat on an aside table for decoration purposes. Driven by a sudden, uncontrollable urge, he plunged forwards, seized it, and wolfed down its contents. He didn't notice his mother stopping during her discourse about the decline of the wizarding society to stare at him instead.

Swallowing the last bits of apple, he called the house-elf to order a plateful of sandwiches. She didn't come. When Tribbs neither answered his second nor the third call, he set off towards the kitchen. He couldn't wait for a disobedient elf to appear. He felt hungrier than he had ever before in his life; the peaches and apples almost had made it worse.

Tribbs wasn't in the kitchen, either, but he found what in all likelihood should have been their lunch earlier today. He chopped off big chunks of cold beef and ate, hardly bothering to chew.

"Tell me that this is not true," said his mother, who had followed him.

"I'm _hungry_," he replied between bites.

"Tell me it is not true," his mother repeated, her eyes narrow and piercing.

"It's not my fault that blasted elf doesn't show up," he mumbled. A warm feeling was starting to spread out from his stomach, making him slightly drowsy.

"Tell me you didn't do this," she said. "Not even you can be such a fool!"

"Do what?" he said. Why was she making such a fuss just because he helped himself to some food?

"Didn't it occur to you that they would try to trick you? How stupid has one to be to accept a drink from an Auror _during an interrogation_?"

The realisation hit him like a blow from a dragon's tail: Ravenous hunger was a significant side effect of Veritaserum!

He'd drunk Veritaserum...

He'd messed up. Again.

He always did.

But for some reason, he felt too tired to panic. He became sleepier with every bite he took. Oh sure, another telltale sign. _There will only be the usual side effects_...

"How much did you drink?"

He shrugged. How should he know? Judging by the way his hunger seemed insatiable, it must have been a whole pint.

"Merlin help us," she gasped. She actually gasped. "What did you tell them?"

He raised his eyes and faced her full on. He couldn't remember when he had looked with less apprehension at somebody who was telling him off.

"The truth, Mother." 

... 

3. Estranged Allies 

The next morning he couldn't say how he had made it to his bed or why he had not fallen asleep on his feet. Maybe his mother had helped him. Maybe she hadn't. He did not know. What he did know for sure was that he wouldn't sleep so soundly for many nights to come.

His mother didn't say much, but he was well aware of the reproachful looks she gave him. Her silence affected him worse than an angry talking-to would have done.

He tried to tell himself that discussing the topic of what he might have told the Aurors would be rather pointless anyway. You couldn't recall questions you had been asked while under the influence of Veritaserum.

He did recall the grave faces, however. And he did not at all like the possible reasons for their being so grave. Whereas his mother chiefly worried his blunder might lead to additional punishment for his father, he couldn't stop thinking that all the people who had been in the interrogation room now knew more secrets of his soul than he cared to reveal to himself.

Another reason why his mother did not investigate into his latest stupidity was a more immediate problem they were faced with: The house-elf had left.

Or rather – as his mother put it – the ministry had kidnapped Tribbs since availing oneself of the services of house-elves counted as forbidden use of magic. She was fuming. The indignation rendered her almost immobile. 

... 

After a lunch of cold beef and stale bread, Draco went out into the garden with a large magnifying glass he had found in the room that once had been his grandfather's study. Starting a fire with the help of lenses was no magic but mere physics wherefore he hoped doing it would not create a new offence.

He experimented with shredded bits of parchments, small, dry twigs and combinations thereof. It was more difficult than theory had led him to believe. But thankfully, he had a bucketful of red-hot charcoals before the afternoon sun sank too low.

He got a fire going in the stove and told his mother to be careful not to let it die down. He had no desire to repeat the experience of making fire by non-magical means.

Sweaty, covered in soot, and with several burn-marks on his fingers he was longing for a bath. Of course, he had to discover that there was no hot water. Maintaining the sundry boilers at Malfoy Manor had been the elf's duty as well.

It took hours for a boiler to heat up sufficiently after restarting the fire. 

... 

The days that followed were less eventful. Every now and then a couple of Ministry clerks showed up. They brought provisions – needless to say, in exchange for galleons – and snooped around for signs of illegally employed magic. They did not find any and usually left slightly disappointed.

His mother's cooking gradually improved. After about a week, he was able to eat her porridge without wanting to heave.

They did not talk much.

He knew she blamed him. This time, she did.

He could see the silent accusation in her eyes, and it hurt. It hurt in a different way than any blow he had suffered before.

She had been on his side all the way through the past two years. No matter what the trouble had been, she had backed him up, guided, and protected him. At least, she had always tried to do so. He was sure he couldn't have survived without her. Too many people would have liked to see him dead. In certain cases, it had probably been the mere fact of her existence that had saved him.

Suddenly, things had changed. She had come to see him for what he really was. She finally had realised how much he indeed resembled his father. Her disappointment worried him more than the looming trial and the prospect of going to Azkaban.

Feeling that he was about to lose the only true ally he had ever had, he went down to her room one evening and apologised for his blunder and his general inadequacy.

He could not explain to her why he hadn't spotted the trap. He had still been numbed by the events of the battle but he didn't dare bring this up as an excuse because, in his heart of hearts, he knew there was no guarantee he would have realised the Auror's intention at his best of days. The truth was simple – he wasn't cut out for this sort of thing.

He anxiously searched for the tiny hint of warmth in her eyes that had always been there, even when his father had dressed him down in the most embarrassing fashion. He wasn't sure he detected it now.

"You are my only son, and, of course, keeping the family together is the more important the more difficult the times are," she said firmly. "I won't pretend, however, that your failure hasn't made things worse."

He felt his chest tighten painfully.

"Mother, please," he pleaded. "I can't undo what I have done."

"No, indeed not. I can't advise you how to talk your way out of the mess you created since there is now way of knowing what particular information you gave them."

This was not what he craved to hear.

He wouldn't be able to talk himself out of anything. They were going to turn every single word he had said against him. Although confessions made under Veritaserum were seldom accepted in court as evidence in itself, they pointed the Aurors to the cupboards where the skeletons were hidden.

"I didn't come here for advice. I... merely wanted..."

He wanted consolation. He wanted something else, something he couldn't express in words. He wasn't sure he would dare to ask even if he had the right words.

"Go to bed, Draco." Her tone was almost gentle. Almost. "Try to rest. You are going to need strength." 

... 

She had given up on him, he thought with a shudder as he trudged back to his room. 

... 

4. Nightmares 

He had little doubt about being in for Azkaban.

Only how many years he would have to serve remained to be seen.

He lay awake for hours every night, brooding. That was, by and large, better than falling asleep. He had had nightmares rather regularly throughout his life, but recently they had become more frequent. Plus, they had become more terrifying.

It wasn't any longer the public humiliation caused by a girl slapping his face. It wasn't any longer the simple fear of failing in a test or at some other task and being reprimanded by his father afterwards.

No, he now heard his father roar with pain. Now, he saw his father writhing on the floor of the drawing room, covered in blood and faeces. He saw his aunt's face, distorted simultaneously with malice and a sick sort of pleasure. He heard his mother's cries and whimpers. He re-lived the pain caused by the curses thrown at him.

When he was lucky, the nightmares were not about the horrors during the Easter holidays, but about big, ghastly snakes slithering along the dining table or about monstrous, Chimaera-headed flames closing in on him.

So, he preferred to stay awake, dwelling on the most recent abuse he had suffered. It had been gentle by comparison and yet downright wicked.

You were never more exposed than under the influence of Veritaserum – you could not lie, you could not refuse to answer.

It was his fault, entirely his fault. They hadn't forced him to drink. He had simply fallen for their annoyingly crude trick.

Basically, they could have asked him anything. They'd had every opportunity to dredge up any piece of incriminating knowledge, any little intimate detail, any embarrassing secret. They'd had the chance to explore any event he consciously remembered, to follow his life from when he had been a toddler wetting himself at the sight of a Blood-Sucking Bugbear to the not overly uplifting experience of sleeping with Pansy Parkinson.

He supposed that having answered questions about his former girlfriend was less likely than having answered ones about the late headmaster. But the Aurors could have invaded his privacy even thus far. There'd been nothing to prevent them. And they would probably have had a good laugh if they had chosen to do so.

They hadn't laughed, though. They had looked anything but merry when he had come round.

So, what _had_ they asked him?

Had they asked him about his father?

His mother?

About others, about Goyle... or Crabbe?

Was anyone interested in the sad fate of an insignificant numskull like Crabbe?

He tried to compile questions that Aurors were most likely to ask and endeavoured to answer them truthfully.

_ - How many sworn followers did V-... have?_

_ - I do not know._

_ - What special curses did V-... teach them?_

_ - I do not know._

_ - What curses did V-... teach you?_

_ - None._

_ - Who taught you the Unforgivable Curses?_

_ - My aunt._

_ - How often did you use them?_

Here, his thoughts stumbled.

How was he to recollect the number of Imperius Curses he had put on Wormtail during the long and many training hours?

Only one thing was sure. He had never used the Killing Curse. He hadn't even been able to finish off the cats and badgers his aunt had provided for training purposes. Somehow, he lacked a quality that was necessary to perform the curse properly. It had been frustrating – and the more so, the more his aunt had enjoyed his repetitive failing. He had even suspected her to give him wrong instructions deliberately.

He had known right from their first encounter that Bellatrix Lestrange didn't like him much. During the training sessions, he had become aware that she, in fact, loathed him. He had found no explanation other than that she extended to him the hatred she harboured for his father. Why she hated his father had likewise been beyond him. Her disgust for both father and son had been an inexhaustible source for arguments between her and his mother.

His aunt's constant mocking, her accusations of inferiority and _effeminacy_ had done little to boost his confidence. He had become increasingly nervous as time had flown by, and his attempts at killing the animals had become more ineffectual instead of more determined.

In the end, shortly before he had returned to Hogwarts, Aunt Bellatrix had told him to give up on the Killing Curse and to throw enemies out of a sixth-floor window instead, using a Hurling Hex.

Months later on the Astronomy Tower, when he had finally had Dumbledore at wand-point, he had realised with a jolt that he couldn't do either – he could not perform an Avada Kedavra, he could not fling the old man over the battlements. The reason wasn't lack of magical skill – no, he didn't have the guts to do it. 

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Author's note:  
I chose a constellation, the "Snake Bearer", as middle name for Draco.  
Neither his middle name nor his date of birth has been mentioned in the books as far as I know.

... 

Postscript, added on September 5, 2011

Waterysilver created a wonderful illustration for this chapter.

ff net doesn't allow direct links to other web pages, but if you wish to view her splendid work, please go to deviantart (dot) com and search for waterysilver or Veritaserum-Exile.


	2. Part 02

5. The Trial

On the last Tuesday of May, the Aurors came to fetch him.

It was a sunny, beautiful morning. It was early, and he wasn't yet dressed.

While they waited outside his room he seized the opportunity to have one last look out of the window. He took in the sight – the sky of spotless blue, the old oaks, the peacocks, the fountain surrounded by ferns and tall irises. This way, he thought with a pathetic attempt at sarcasm, the Dementors would find at least one happy memory to rob him of.

... 

When he was marched into the large dungeon, he felt like fainting. The torches seemed to slither along the walls, the murmur of the many shadowy figures in the high benches rose to a cacophony as he was steered to a chair. No sooner had he sat down than iron chains closed around his wrists and ankles.

They asked him questions – name, date of birth, place of residence.

He answered; the words came out as hoarse croaks.

Only once and only for a second, he glanced up. He instantly regretted it.

Weasley – the one who had once been Head Boy – Potter, and Granger sat in the nearest benches. Even though they weren't wearing the plum-coloured robes of the Wizengamot, their mere being there triggered an urge to run that was beyond control. Their presence made him realise with terrifying clarity that no assembly of anonymous strangers was going to pronounce a sentence upon him. The people here knew him. They hated him. The people in this courtroom wished to see him undone.

His heart beat against the ribcage as if it was trying to get out. Dark spots danced before his eyes.

He had to summon every shred of willpower to struggle against the recurring waves of nausea. He fixed his eyes on an irregular crack in the flagstone before his feet and concentrated on breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He fought to steady his heartbeat. He fought to tune out the voices around him.

In.

Out.

He calmed down ever so slightly, telling himself that he would be taken away soon. He would not have to talk to any of these people, he would not have to answer their questions, he would not have to meet their eyes.

In.

Out.

He owed Potter.

He owed him his life.

Twice.

Thrice, to be correct.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

None of them would have stood a chance.

Once Potter would have been out of the way, the monster would have started to weed out the ranks of its followers – it would have got rid of anybody who was, in its opinion, too weak, too untrustworthy, or of too noble descent. It had only ever needed them to chase Potter.

Draco and his father would have been among the first to go. Not that the monster would have bothered itself with killing them – it would simply have given Bellatrix Lestrange leave to deal with her brother-in-law; Draco's executioner would have been Greyback.

The mere memory of the werewolf chilled him to the bone. Throughout the past two years, Greyback had kept seeking opportunity to come across Draco as if by chance. He had never said anything, but the way his gaze had slowly travelled from Draco's chin to the collarbone and back had been suggestive enough.

The day after Potter's escape from the manor – every muscle in Draco's body had still ached from the Cruciatuses, he had had no wand, and the hallway had been completely deserted except for him and the werewolf – Greyback had pinned him to the wall and breathed that sickening stench of rotten meat into his face. And this time, he had spoken. The rasping voice had had a shockingly lascivious quality. _I WILL have you, beautiful..._ _I will taste your blood, rip out your delicious throat..._

Anything, _anything_ would be better than being eaten alive by a brute like Fenrir Greyback. Even Azkaban.

Azkaban.

He had backed off too late, _far_ too late, to make his move a convincing plea for the court. When he finally had found one of Potter's immediate friends, his warning had come too late. Plus, he had had no evidence whatsoever, no proof for his words, nothing substantial. It was a miracle Thomas had listened to him at all.

_Since when do you care about Harry's well-being, Malfoy?_

What exactly had he said in response to Thomas's question? Potter had just been the last thing standing between him and ultimate doom. Had he said that?

"And you did believe him, Mr Thomas?" an unfamiliar male voice boomed, resounding of the stony walls of the courtroom and shaking Draco out of his thoughts. "Why?"

"What he said made sense to me. He had been around Voldemort" – Draco shuddered – "long enough to make an educated guess. At any rate, I was sure his panic was genuine. So, I decided telling Harry about a possible trap wouldn't hurt. The only problem was that I couldn't find him. Harry had already left the castle."

"So Potter never heard Malfoy's so-called warning?" the loud, male voice demanded.

"I cannot answer that," Thomas said with considerable calm. "He didn't hear it from me since I couldn't find him in time."

There was a derisive snort.

"First, we hear a _written_ testimony read to the court by a clerk," the man complained, "because the witness is underage. Now, we are required to listen to a so-called witness who has nothing on offer but gut feeling. Honestly, how much more of this bullshit does the defence propose to present here?"

"The prosecution will mind his language," another male voice, a rather stern one, said. "Besides, you cannot blame the defence for your own lack in thoroughness. Both sides have the same right to present witnesses. You failed to summon any, and this will be considered nobody's fault but yours."

"Fiddlesticks," the first man grumbled. "Why waste time? This case is as clear as crystal – he does have the bloody Mark. He did cast Unforgivables. And that's it. It doesn't matter whether they were Cruciatuses or Imperiuses. I don't see much of a difference there."

"Oh, you would if you 'ad ever been placed under them," a woman said.

Draco didn't look up although her voice sounded vaguely familiar. Knowing who was talking about him would only make it worse.

"Apart from the question of witnesses, the case is anything but clear, Mr Blancmange," the woman went on. Parchments rustled. "The defence will now bring two relevant legal technicalities to the attention of the court. Firstly, the _Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery_ of 1875, paragraph B, clause 1 and paragraph D, clauses 5 and 6 apply to several offences of which Mr Malfoy is accused. Said offences include the use of an Imperius Curse on Caitlin Rosmerta and the attack on the late Albus Dumbledore. Secondly, the use of all three Unforgivable Curses was formally legalised by Pius Thicknesse while 'e was Minister for Magic. During that time, even the unforced use of an Unforgivable Curse does not create a punishable crime per se."

Her words caused uproar.

The man with the stern voice tried to put a stop to the loud and passionate debates that went on all around. It took what felt like an hour before he succeeded.

"This unfortunate interruption is, without doubt, due the haste that was made in bringing the first suspects to court before the end of the month in order to meet the expectations of the public," he said when the noise had declined to a low-level murmur. "However, not discussing the consequences of Thicknesse's actions beforehand seems to have been unwise and-"

He was interrupted by a series of objections that ran along the lines of _if we accept that as an excuse not only Malfoy here but nine out off ten Death Eaters will go unpunished _and _Thicknesse's actions were not valid because he was under an Imperius himself_.

"The accused 'ad neither the obligation nor the means to determine a minister's mental state," someone shouted louder than the rest of the crowd whereupon a woman shrieked_,_ "Don't let them off – they killed my whole family!"

Her cry stung Draco in a place where he hadn't expected it. The monster had revelled in people's frantic worry for the safety of their relatives. It hadn't cared whether those people were enemies or devotees.

The tumult ended abruptly as someone slammed a heavy tome with full force down on a table.

"That's enough!" a young, female voice said.

Draco froze.

"According to the _Statute on Adequate Legal Action_ of 1912, no witch or wizard may be prosecuted by a law that was not valid at the time she or he committed the deed in question. This applies to laws that had been cancelled before the alleged offence was committed as well as to laws established afterwards." Granger's voice was thick with an emotion difficult to identify. "Like it or not – if this court chooses not to abide by standing law, it will be no court at all but an angry mob hunting defenceless victims. And that is _not_ what Harry fought for."

An ominous silence fell that rang louder than the shouts before.

Draco was quite sure he didn't understand what was going on.

... 

6. Trepidation

The man with the stern voice announced that the Wizengamot would need some time to sort out the technicalities before a decision could be made. He ordered the guards to lead the suspect outside for the interim.

Two heavily built men dragged Draco out into the hallway, shoved him against the nearest pillar, and conjured up a set of binding ropes. Once he was firmly tied to the marble post, they moved away.

In the silence of the empty hallway, the woman's cry still seemed to reverberate of the walls: _Don't let them off; they killed my whole family_.

He hadn't.

He hadn't killed anybody.

He doubted that the people assembled in the courtroom would bother with such details. More often than not, the Wizengamot had followed the simple cling-together-swing-together rule in the past.

He hadn't killed.

He had hurt people, though. It had felt good to take his pent-up frustration out on someone. The feeling had never lasted long, but the moment of discharge had usually felt great – like pushing off a weight and rising into the air by the mere loss of it. For most of the time, he had stuck to using words – snide remarks, subtle insults, or not so subtle ones... He had taken physic action only very rarely and only with people who weren't too likely to fight back. Of course, he was a coward. He had always been one. There was no point in pretending any longer.

Once, he had trodden on Potter's face. Hard. It had been a mistake. Oh, not that he hadn't wanted to. Quite to the contrary, Potter immobilised on the floor and for once defenceless despite his higher proficiency had been a temptation he hadn't been able to resist. Oh yes, it had felt good to swing his foot, to get some small revenge for all the times he had lost to the Golden Boy of Gryffindor. It had felt good to pay back for his father being in prison.

It had felt good until his boot had connected with Potter's face and he had heard the sickening noise of a bone breaking. There had been blood, too. He had wrenched the blasted Invisibility Coat out from under Potter's back and had thrown it over the nauseating sight. If he had thought, initially, he was going to kick Potter – righteous, unblemished, well-liked Potter – until he had exhausted himself and his irritation, he had been mistaken. Treading on Potter's hand before leaving the compartment had cost him a real effort. He had done it to prove – first and foremost to himself – that he _could_ do it, that he wasn't the milksop his aunt made him out to be.

Half an hour later, he had sat at the Slytherin table, scowling at his food. Instead of eating, he had entertained his classmates with an elaborate description of his brawl with Potter, multiplying the number of dealt kicks by the factor of ten and lying about Potter whimpering and begging for mercy.

His audience had applauded.

They had thought Potter's humiliation to be a good laugh and had considered Draco's deed quite an accomplishment. None of them had spotted the flaw. Nobody had pointed out that a person placed under a _Petrificus Totalus_ couldn't whimper.

In his heart of hearts, Draco had probably known all along that he wouldn't stand a chance in any moderately fair fight one on one. The incident in the compartment had brought the hitherto diligently ignored piece of knowledge to a level of consciousness where he couldn't overlook it any longer. And being aware of such a deficiency wasn't exactly helpful when your task was to murder one of the most accomplished wizards of all times.

Kill, or be killed. So simple.

So hopeless.

The promised reward for failing to kill Dumbledore had been death, the death of his whole family.

In the end, Snape had spoken up for him – only for him, not for his parents. He had said that Draco hadn't had enough time to complete the mission himself but that his contribution to assassinating Dumbledore had been nevertheless essential.

Draco wasn't sure why the monster had relented. It had had no regard for Draco's father; it had downright despised Draco.

Maybe their death sentence had only been suspended until the need for another suicide mission arose.

Maybe the reason had been to deprive Snape of the opportunity to ask another favour for killing Dumbledore.

Maybe keeping Narcissa Malfoy alive had had practical reasons. Threats against her sister were the only means to keep Bellatrix Lestrange in line. Up to a point.

A noice brought him back to the present. Somebody was shuffling their feet nearby. For a fleeting moment, one of the guards came into sight.

Why did they make him wait?

Two years or ten or a lifetime – did it matter? Did it really matter? He might lose his mind within a fortnight...

The marble felt cold against his back. The ropes were tight; they hardly let him breathe.

"Do you reckon they'll let him off?" one of the guards suddenly muttered.

"Dunno," his comrade replied in a low voice. "Blancmange botched it right up. What a shame..."

"Having no witnesses, honestly... that wasn't clever. He should have called Madam Rosmerta. She'd have told them some interesting stories about poisoned mead and cursed necklaces."

"Wouldn't have helped much, though," the second guard grumbled. "You heard the learned lady from Switzerland: _Buying a cursed necklace of Borgin and Burkes doesn't constitute a crime_. I ask you! The bloody git is a chip of the old Malfoy block, arrogant and rotten to the core. Everybody knows that. No wonder he had to hire a barrister from abroad."

Draco shook his head. Or tried to, anyway, since the ropes wouldn't let him.

He hadn't hired anybody. Least of all he would have hired the very woman who had drowned the last wisps of his self-esteem in Veritaserum.

His mother had asked the Ministry clerks to contact the long-standing family lawyers for her – to no avail. Guntram Rosier and Harper were dead. And unless the clerks had lied to his mother about the matter, Candida Marchbanks had refused to come and see her.

"Funny, how all the riches of his family won't help him now. To think they couldn't even get a barrister in Britain..." the first guard went on. "It's funny, really. Nobody wants to speak up for a Malfoy now."

"Except for Dumbledore's crowd, of course. That idiot girl – she was tortured at Malfoy Manor, wasn't she? What's she babbling away about _standing law_ and stuff?"

"That's Gryffindors for you – brave, but gullible. Look at Potter. Poor bloke, Shacklebolt has him right under his thumb."

Draco swallowed. The two men parroting somebody else's opinions sounded very much like Goyle and Crabbe once had.

Then again, he hadn't been any better. Not at all. He had devotedly believed in every single one of his father's concepts.

He had believed in his father.

He had.

... 

7. Expelliarmus

He couldn't tell how many hours had elapsed when he was finally led back into the courtroom. His legs felt numb from the binding, and he staggered more than he walked. That was one reason, but not the only one, why he kept his eyes firmly trained on the floor just before his feet.

This time they didn't chain him to the seat but made him stand.

Someone called loudly for the verdict to be read, and the thought struck him that he had completely missed the arraignment.

The man with the stern voice started speaking. In a strange monoton, he recited facts of Draco's life so far – names, dates, places.

Draco, his eyes still cast down, felt increasingly dizzy. His heart raced at a terrifying speed, the blood pounding through his veins made a rushing sound in his ears, his legs threatened to give way at any moment. He wanted this absurd recital to be over, he wanted to be out of here, he wanted to lie down, sit down at least, even on the cold stone floor of a prison cell. The time to come would hold no greater comfort.

Someone grabbed him and held him steady. He found that he could breathe. His heart rate gradually slowed down.

He tried to listen to the man with the stern voice. There was a string of unfamiliar expressions, intersperesed with references to laws and regulations: Suspended sentence... considering the delinquents comparative young age and lack of experience... _Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery_ of 1875... on probation for five years from this day forward... _Decree for Encouraging Repentance and Moral Betterment in __Redemption Worthy Offenders_ of 1717... required to abstain from any use of magic... potions... charms... collecting, growing, harvesting, selling, or purchasing magical plants...

The words jumbled together in his brain and refused to make sense. What had magical plants to do with anything?

"You will also be required to abstain from all political activity," the man with the stern voice continued. "A written _Code of Conduct_ will be handed to you within the next twenty four hours. Keep in mind that the first proven breach of rules will result in a stay of two years and seven months in Azkaban."

Draco jerked his head up. Equally startled and bewildered, he stared at the speaker.

The man nodded towards him and said in a lower, infinitisimally softer tone, "You got a second chance, Mr Malfoy. Try not to waste it."

... 

He was out of the courtroom before he really knew it. Two stout Aurors escorted him at top speed down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor – one without doors – until they reached the lift. They shoved him – not too gently – in and, after a short ride, back out. They marched him briskly across the spacious Atrium and into a strange cubicle that rose up to the earth's surface. They walked him behind a stack of decrepit and reeking containers, and from there, they Apparated him to the manor.

They quite literally dropped him in the drawing room and left without either of them having spoken a single word.

Draco still felt completely befuddled when his mother rushed into the room and swept him into an actual hug. Her forehead resting against his shoulder, she murmured incoherent words of satisfaction.

Sadly, he was too dazed to enjoy this most uncharacteristic display of emotion while it lasted. She soon remembered her manners, let go of him, and stepped away.

Her usual, composed self again, she started enquiring about the trial. The answers he could give were far from being satisfactory. The only thing he understood – and _understood_ was most likely an overstatement, too – was that he had been pardoned. Why and how he couldn't explain. There were conditions, and he couldn't explain them either.

He sank down on one of the chairs and rested his head against the straight back. He contemplated going to his room and lying down on his bed, but climbing the stairs seemed to great an effort.

He refused dinner – despite not having eaten for the whole day, his stomach revolted at the mere tought of food – but agreed to a large cup of camomile tea since his mother insisted und wouldn't budge.

Drinking made him indeed feel a little better. Hesitantly, he gave in to the sense of relief that crept over him.

... 

A while later a Ministry owl came, delivering the so-called _Code of Conduct_. It was a long list of things he was either forbidden to do or forbidden to be in possession of.

He skimmed through it – no wands, no brooms, no Sneakoscopes or Foe-Glasses, no this, no that... He was too exausted to memorise only half of it.

His mother perused the text, confidently searching for loopholes.

"I wonder how they compiled this catalogue," she said at long last. "From what it seems, some people are fearing for their respective businesses. Understandable to some extent, but honestly, as if a Black or Malfoy would _ever_ stoop to weeding herb beds with bare hands!"

The last remark, especially the pointed way in which it was delivered, stirred up an old sadness that had been buried by the continual fears and worries of the last months sufficiently enough to be almost completely forgotten. There was this dream he had once harboured, another dream that – like so many others – had not come true and, in all probability, never would. This dream was different, however. It hadn't been induced by the expectations of others. It had slowly and, at first, unnoticed and therefore unchecked grown within him.

"Not being allowed to wield a wand for several years is a severe blow, Draco, but you will at least live in your own home. Using owls is not forbidden, so you will be able to correspond with a number of influential witches and wizards who may be in a position to help you once this penalty is over. You should devote this stretch of time to something useful – learning Greek, for instance, or, even more beneficial, working as a free lance for _Witch's Weekly_. It would certainly be a benefit if your name were recognised by a broad audience in a favourable way five years hence. We'll discuss that tomorrow. Right now, you should go to bed. You must be fatigued."

Fatigue was too weak a word he thought dully. He was tired to no end.

... 

When he finally lay in his bed and his gaze fell on the unlit candle on his bedside-table, he suddenly realised with full clarity that he wouldn't touch a wand for five long years to come.

Perhaps he should stop to wonder. Almost right from the beginning, there had been talk among the Death Eaters that _Expelliarmus_ was Potter's signature move.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 

Author's note:  
Throughout the books, _Madam_ as a form of address is combined with a witch's family name (Hooch, Pince, Pomfrey, Puddifoot). _Rosmerta_ should therefore be a family name, too. I couldn't find a first name for her in the books though, so I made one up.


	3. Part 03

8. Tit For Tat

His mother's trial was held two days later.

She came back with an almost smug expression on her face.

"It's incredible what sort of sentimental softies are in charge now," she said. "But of course, I won't complain."

She had a suspended sentence, too.

... 

Soon, there was more moderately good news. His father's stay in Azkaban would not be prolonged. Instead, he'd be put on probation for ten years after his release from prison.

Then, the bad news came.

It was delivered by the Head of the Bailiff Office, Theresia Higgs. She turned up with several members of her staff and a number of other Ministry officials to confiscate the manor along with the surrounding estate. Her eyes shone with glee when she detailed to his mother how everybody who had participated in or benefited from the Dark Lord's reign was liable to pay reparations. She still called the Monster That Must Not Be Named a _lord_.

As it turned out, the Malfoys were not allowed to keep more than a fixed, outrageously small sum of Galleons and one trunk each of personal belongings.

Draco was too stupefied to say a word. His mother negotiated, no, she _begged_ until she got permission to pack a trunk for her absent husband as well. Higgs clearly enjoyed every second of it. Had there not been the risk that the bystanders became suspicious she would have prolonged his mother's humiliation even further.

The rivalry between the Malfoys and the Higgses was age-old. Draco knew indulging him had only been one of his father's considerations when he had bought seven brand-new broomsticks for Slytherin. The other one had been kicking Terence out of the team.

... 

After Higgs and her throng had Disapparated, Narcissa Malfoy hurried away to write an elderly relative, one who she thought might be able to help at such short notice. They had been given no more than twenty-four hours to pack and leave.

Draco went out into the garden.

He ran his fingers along the long, smooth stems of the white irises. Once he had planned to cross them with purple ones. He had been curious to see the outcome of the experiment. Would the seedlings turn out to sprout pink flowers? Or would they be bi-coloured in some way – chequered or striped? Or would one colour overwrite the other? Reading theory about plant breeding in a textbook was fine, but he had wanted to see for himself.

This had been only two years ago, and yet it seemed as if in another life.

However, this other life had not been completely different. He would have had to conduct his experimental breeding on the sly. Neither of his parents had approved of his professed interest in Herbology. They considered Herbology a field of study that was suitable for the inferior, for Hufflepuffs and squibs. Being a Malfoy, he was to take up nobler sciences.

... 

His mother filled her trunk with gold. She gathered family heirlooms and every piece of jewellery she could find in the house until she realised that she would never be able to move the accumulated weight without magic. She nearly had a fit.

He sat in his room, trying to decide what he should leave behind. There were so many things he couldn't take along – his Quidditch robes, his Nimbus 2001, his school books and his notes, his cauldron, the various small keepsakes collected during his time at school. They were mere souvenirs without much material value – perhaps except for the set of action figures of the Irish and Bulgarian Quidditch teams that replayed the match of 1994 – but they carried memories, even good ones in some cases.

He sat there, toying absently with a small, silvery ludoscope – one of the few items that had escaped his father's regular scouring sessions. His parents had always made sure that his playthings were appropriate in every respect. Before he got a cartload of new, expensive toys for his birthday or for Yule, a number of old ones, ones he had grown "too old" for, had to go. He had never been very successful at choosing hiding places. His father had found the green, cuddly dragon as well as the lullaby box, the crayons, the bouncing pumpkins, and the funny book about a gang of Chizpurfles infesting the home of a slack witch.

Suddenly, with a violent start, he realised that the toy in his hand – a gift from his grandfather – was a piece of intrinsic magic. And it wasn't the only enchanted thing in the room... The whole Manor was _jam-packed_ with magical equipment of some sort or other! Why hadn't the Ministry bothered to confiscate such items right away?

The initial shock gave way to a horrible suspicion: It was a trap. A squad of Aurors would rush in here at three o'clock in the morning or at the very next moment, grab something almost at random, declare it a proof of rule-breaking, and carry him off to Azkaban...

He let out a shuddering breath. If this was indeed the plan, it was craftily thought up, Slytherin-like, and impossible to fail. The new Minister did not come from Slytherin, but it didn't matter whether he was involved personally. There were enough Theresia Higgses around who were perfectly capable of carrying out their own little schemes of vengeance.

The worst was that he could do absolutely nothing about it. Without a wand, he couldn't destroy or Vanish the incriminating objects. And moving certain things to some out-of-the-way chamber would only prove that he had touched them, or worse, that he tried to hide them from the authorities.

He felt tired. Although the worst fears had ceased with the monster's demise, there were now new ones. He wouldn't be safe until the five years of probation were over. Maybe not even then.

He put the ludoscope on his bedside table and walked over to the window where he leaned his forehead against the cool pane.

It had started to rain. The slow drizzle touched the old oaks gently. A grey veil of raindrops obscured the landscape normally visible in the background on clear days. The peacocks had fled to their shelter.

Azkaban or not – he would never stand here again. The vista from his window, though not magical, was one of the things he had to leave behind.

He turned back to the room, now knowing by what guideline he had to pack his trunk. The question wasn't what he _wanted_ to keep and what not. He had to distinguish between what he was _permitted_ to keep and what not.

He opened the wardrobe and sifted through its contents – jumpers and knitted waistcoats, scores of shirts, several pairs of black, woollen trousers... underpants, vests, socks, pyjamas. His favourite polo-neck pullover, chocolate brown and made of fine cashmere, went into the trunk first.

... 

9. The Hidden Treasure

It was nearly midnight when he carried his school notes down to the kitchen. He put them, page after page, into the flames. He felt terrible doing it, but he couldn't allow anyone to see them. The Aurors had already ripped Merlin-only-knew-what secrets out of his soul. He couldn't allow anyone to find out more.

The parchments were littered with tiny sketches, hidden in folds or so inconspicuously strewn in between the lines that they were almost undetectable from afar. There were the one-liners scribbled in the margins, there were – mostly on separate sheets – the comic strips featuring Minna McGoggleall and Dumbass D'Ore. Pansy had always found them very amusing. There were the countless little pictures of herbs and flowers he'd doodled during tedious History lessons. They all had to go because he was afraid they might give away more of him than the Veritaserum-induced trance had done. He had sometimes been reckless enough to doodle irises instead of Venomous Tentaculas.

There was a portrait of Victor Krum, only one inch in square but fairly accurate. Seeing it burn hurt. Thinking back to the Triwizard Tournament hurt. He couldn't explain why, but it hurt. Cedric Diggory had been a pure-blood. Remembering this little fact, a fact he had hitherto diligently ignored, hurt.

There were hardly any doodles on the notes of the past two years; he had been too busy or too scared to indulge in idle pursuits. He burnt them anyway. His other notes he would have preferred to keep, but these ones he _wanted to go_.

The last picture devoured by the flames was one showing Daphne Greengrass in the prefect's bathroom. He had walked in on her accidentally – the Carrows had put up a Universal Unlocking Jinx that counteracted all Colloportus Charms throughout the castle. He had been out in a split second, mumbling only a quick _sorry_ instead of paying a formal apology, but the image of Daphne climbing into the bathtub had stuck in his head. He had let it out – in a state of heavy inner turmoil – around three months later. It had been in the evening of the day on which Pansy had broken up with him. He hadn't understood back then. He still wasn't sure how to interpret the strange speech Pansy had made in between lunch and the start of the first afternoon lesson.

He tossed a few billets and coals into the fire to stop it from dying down. A bit of dried resin burst into a sudden jet of flame.

He winced at the sight.

... 

He traipsed back to his room, halting after every other step. Trying to sleep now would be entirely foolish. After having stared into a fire for hours, he'd only dream of vicious, Chimera-headed flames that chased him down a never-ending aisle.

He noticed that he had been standing outside his grandfather's study for several minutes.

He gave a minute shrug. Why not say good-bye?

He went in and sat in the plush chair behind the desk – something he had very rarely dared to do although he had found himself in this room almost frequently in the course of the last year. Mostly, he had sat on the floor in the corner behind the door. Only here he had felt comparatively safe, safer anyway than in his own room where his aunt – carefully forgetting to knock – had barged in at the oddest moments. Wormtail had been sent up to him under some pretence or other about three times a day. Other Death Eaters had dropped in to ask _whether he was doing fine_. As if they had ever cared...

Greyback hadn't come in. He had loitered on the stairs.

In here, however, no-one had come. It was no bathroom with a depressed ghost sobbing in a u-bent, but people avoided it all the same.

The room breathed wealth and refined taste although a twelfth-century oil painting above the mantelpiece was the only article that served no other purpose than that of decoration – the furniture was made of polished oak, the colour of the velvet hangings matched perfectly that of the upholstery, and the floor was covered with an expensive Persian carpet. The books were invariably bound in dyed dragon-hide and had golden lettering. Everything was first class. His grandfather's writing utensils – quill holder, ink vessel, parchment-knife, and parchment-weight – were specimens of utmost elegance. They sat right in front of Draco, neatly arranged in the middle of the desk. They were made of pure gold and covered with a thick layer of dust.

It took his tired brain quite some time to find the last observation intriguing. The parchment-weight was a solid block of gold, nine pounds at a minimum. There was no way his mother could have overlooked it – unless she had overlooked the door to her late father-in-law's study first.

Draco got up and walked around. At five o'clock on a bright June morning, there was enough light to perceive that the only dust-free object in the room was the magnifying glass. Also, the dust wasn't that of four weeks, gathered since Tribbs had disappeared. It was the dust of years.

He scanned the interior more intently, searching for something special, something precious that was worth the effort of concealing the entire room. A few golden tools, an old painting showing Stonehenge, a candlestick made of exquisite china... books, impressive in appearance but none of them about an extraordinary topic... His gaze fell on a plain, black suitcase sitting on top of the filing cabinet.

And he remembered.

His grandfather had ushered him in here and shown him that very suitcase. It had been filled with many little pictures. _I made provision for you. You see, for a rainy day... _The old man had spoken even more gravely than usual. _Remember that, Draco. Don't tell anybody, but remember. A time might come when you'll need it._

His grandfather had given him complicated instructions concerning the suitcase and its contents. At any rate, Draco had found them complicated, especially because he was distracted by the question whether "for a rainy day" meant that the pictures were playthings he could use on days when the weather was too bad to go outside. He hadn't asked that question, tough. Making queries betrayed that he hadn't understood straight away, and that most often earned him a reprimand.

His grandfather had then told him to put his small thumbs on the locks and to press the lid shut simultaneously. Doing so had been very difficult, but he had not disappointed Grandfather Abraxas. The way Draco recalled it, the event had taken place only a few days before his grandfather's death.

Draco took the suitcase down and wiped the dust off with the palm of his hand. He coincidentally touched one of the locks and it sprang open of its own accord. Surprised, he touched the other one, which opened just as obediently.

The suitcase was filled with rectangular pieces of _paper_, just like he recalled it. Most of the paper rectangles were purplish in colour, and had the number twenty printed in both the upper right-hand and the lower left-hand corner. On all of them was a portrait of the same, dark-haired woman wearing a crown. And by now, he knew what they were.

He had heard talk, occasionally, in the common room. Students had furtively shown each other such or similar slips of paper. The depicted woman was said to be the _Queen of the Muggles_.

He sat back down in the chair, feeling somewhat dumbfounded. How could his grandfather possibly have foreseen a disaster that had been more than a decade away? And why had he told _him_, a five-year-old child, instead of the adults?

There was no immediate answer. After mulling over the problem for ten minutes, there still was none. But he knew what he had to do.

He hurried upstairs to his room and came back with a couple of pillowcases into which he transferred the Muggle money. The suitcase was definitely enchanted, and he wasn't going to take any chances.

... 

10. Leaving Wiltshire

Five minutes before their time was up, his mother called him to one of the smaller, seldom used salons.

He found her hastily collecting wooden statuettes from the mantelpiece and sundry aside tables. While she wrapped them in pieces of cloth that looked suspiciously like silk, she asked him whether he had space left to store a few items for her. Without waiting for his reply, she thrust a capacious rucksack into his hands to hold it open for her so she could put in the little wrapped things. There were about thirty of them.

"See to it that this fits into your trunk," she instructed him. "The statuettes are two hundred and fifty galleons _each_."

"I hope there are no enchantments on them," he said hesitantly.

"Of course not! They are precious – original works of the famous Ligneus Poplar. I only just remembered them. Make haste; Higgs will be coming any second!"

He ran down to the entrance hall, taking two steps at a time. The three trunks already stood there. He opened his, threw several pairs of thick, woollen trousers and one pair of heavy boots out – if these works of art were as valuable as his mother said, he could buy new ones – and stuffed the rucksack in as it were.

He was barely finished when Higgs and her underlings arrived. They swooped down on the trunk packed for Draco's father like birds of prey.

Draco watched the commotion from a safe distance. He waited a few minutes before he took the three different Muggle bank notes he had selected earlier out of his pocket. He had to make sure the money wasn't jinxed.

Holding up the reverse sides he cautiously approached Baxter Selwyn. Selwyn came from a long line of pure-blood traditionalists, and Draco hoped that the elderly wizard knew less about Muggle money than he did.

"Sir," he said with due meekness for the occasion, "could you please check these? I know it's probably a bit silly – please don't tell my mother – but... they belonged to my grandfather. He collected such little pictures... occasionally he allowed me to come and look at them. I would like to have them as a... err, keepsake."

The man went straight for the bait.

"That's fine by me if you want to keep worthless junk," he sneered.

"Err... yes. But could you check for enchantments? I mustn't take any risks."

The man snorted. Nevertheless, he waved his wand over the Muggle banknotes in Draco's hand. He shrugged and gave the trunk, including the rucksack and its contents, a cursory inspection as well. Apparently, he found nothing suspicious and turned away to join the debate whether Narcissa Malfoy's self-adjusting brassieres qualified as illegal use of magic.

... 

Half an hour later, Draco and his mother sat in the coach Great-aunt Lucrecia had hired for them.

He avoided his mother's eyes. Something in her demeanour made him uneasy. He had stayed out off her argument with Higgs. Having to watch his mother, the epitome of poise and dignity, quarrel over a piece of lingerie had been... unsettling. The word _bitchfight_ came to his mind. He wondered where he had picked up such vocabulary.

"Four horses and the driver!" she suddenly sighed. "This will cost us."

He said nothing.

"I'm sure she'll want her favour remunerated," she muttered under her breath. "Lucrecia is that kind of person."

He kept silent. He couldn't tell, anyway. The last time he had seen Lucrecia Runcorn had been four years ago when she had paid his father, who was her older sister's only grandchild, a short visit of perhaps half an hour.

However, his mother had determined that Great-aunt Lucrecia was the only family member they had still left to turn to for help or, more like, charity. The aged, widowed witch had responded straight off to his mother's plea: They were to come and stay at her home; it would be an arrangement beneficial for both sides. Maybe the latter meant she intended to charge them board and lodging.

He closed his eyes. He hadn't slept all night, his head ached, and it was hot and sticky inside the carriage. After a while, his body started aching too – the road was bumpy, and the suspension of the carriage didn't live up to the task.

He needed a break, a few days of rest, some time of calm and contemplation. He wanted no new alarms or worries, but time to let it sink in that what had happened and what was happening now was real – no prolonged nightmare, no foul spell playing tricks with his brain and causing ghastly illusions, but reality.

From when on had his life gone downhill? Surely a long time before Snape had propelled him down the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, yelling, _run, Draco, run_.

He certainly felt as if he had never stopped running since.

... 

Great-aunt Lucrecia was more than a hundred years old and looked like a skeleton draped with expensive clothes. Draco wasn't fooled by that outer appearance, though. The casual flick of the wand with which she levitated all three trunks in one go spoke of remarkable magical power.

She gave Draco and his mother a quick tour around the cottage, all the while ranting about how with Kingsley Shacklebolt yet again a wizard of substandard lineage had been made Minister for Magic. She seemed unable to shut up for a single instant.

The room assigned to Draco was fairly large but jammed with antique furniture. His mother's room struck him as overdecorated. There were quilts and rugs and hangings wherever he looked, and their glaring colours clashed awfully.

A few minutes later – he'd had scarcely time enough to change into a fresh shirt – they sat at the dinner table. The stew was excellent.

"So," said Great-aunt Lucrecia after she had eaten two spoonfuls, "I heard a very interesting report about the young gentleman earlier today."

Draco looked up in surprise.

"Yes, yes, I do have my sources. How did my good friend Selwyn put it? Let me see... _an inept youngster who is trying to play it safe_. Exactly what he said. Very amusing indeed."

She looked anything but amused, and Draco went rigid as if hit by a Petrificus Totalus.

"Draco is still very young," his mother said. "I'm grateful he made it through the war alive and in one piece, so I won't have him taking foolish risks now."

"I thought so," Great-aunt Lucrecia turned to her. "I thought him to be a little mother's boy."

"I wouldn't put it like that," his mother said, her voice calm and controlled.

"Would you not? If so, you should perhaps reconsider your attitude towards him," the great-aunt said sharply. "You had better keep a close eye on him lest he get completely out of hand. Make sure he concerns himself with the _right_ things!"

"Of course," his mother replied, giving him a warning look simultaneously.

"Instead of filling his trunk with gold and jewels, he bothered with worthless keepsakes," the great-aunt went on.

There was a subtle change in his mother's posture. "The statuettes are original art works by Ligneus Poplar," she stated, "and a gold-filled trunk cannot be moved without magic. As you surely know, Draco and I are forbidden to use wands."

"It didn't escape my attention." The old witch now radiated glee. "And I assure you I won't forget it, either."

His mother seemed to deem it wisest to let the insinuation pass. Great-aunt Lucrecia, however, wasn't done yet. "I understand you lost a tiny wee fight with Theresia Higgs this morning? She denied you your favourite lingerie?"

"The Head Bailiff took a great deal of pleasure in being overzealous," his mother answered stiffly.

"Big surprise there," Great-aunt Lucrecia commented with relish. "The slut used to hanker after a certain Lucius Malfoy in her younger days... Not that I can comprehend what she ever saw in him."

... 

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 


	4. Part 04

11. Great-aunt Lucrecia's Intelligence

He sat on his bed, trying to come to terms with the situation.

He could think of no alternative to Lucrecia Runcorn. His mother hadn't talked to her other sister since Andromeda Black had turned her back on the family by marrying a Mudblood. Their daughter had gone and married a _werewolf_. Maybe Lupin hadn't been the same sort of brute like Greyback, but still...

He had spotted the body of his former teacher lying on the floor of the Great Hall. Lupin was dead, and so was his other aunt's badly chosen husband. Aunt Bellatrix had bragged about having had a share in the latter's demise.

It was all such a mess.

And everyone blamed him – one side for participating too much and the other one for not contributing enough. Great-aunt Lucrecia, he was sure, belonged to the latter. Half an hour after his arrival here, she already considered him a failure. She had probably done so even before. He had made a bad mistake in talking to Baxter Selwyn. But how could he have known the man was chummy with the great-aunt and would Apparate straight to her house?

Tired as he was, he could not sleep. The bed, although soft and comfy, smelled of Chizpurfle repellent. Apparently Lucrecia Runcorn was, among other things, paranoid.

He left the bed and stood by the window, staring into the starless blackness beyond. He wished he could stop thinking. He wished he could wipe his mind blank for a while – for this one night or at least for an hour. But scores of unbidden and disquieting memories kept revolving in his mind.

... _Will you babysit the cubs?... You disgust me, you overindulged brat..._ _An inept youngster who is trying to play it safe... Don't you dare you foul – _Slap! – _you evil... Eat slugs, Malfoy..._

He remembered the day he had replaced Terence Higgs on the Slytherin Quidditch team. The change had made him nowhere as popular as he had initially hoped. Terence had never again spoken a single word to him in his remaining years at Hogwarts.

His father and Terence's mother – could that be? He couldn't relate his father to anyone but his mother. Yet things happened, did they not? Perhaps his father and Theresia Something had been close during their time at school, the way he and Pansy had been close before everything fell to pieces...

... 

Breakfast was plentiful, but he didn't have much of an appetite.

The great-aunt seemed to be deeply lost in thought, and, therefore, the meal passed in comfortable silence. She left via Floo immediately afterwards, saying she had to call in favours.

Draco helped his mother to move the large wardrobe that blocked the sole window of her room from opening. Then he went to sit in the shade of the large elm tree behind the cottage. There wasn't much to see; Lucrecia Runcorn's comparatively small estate was surrounded by a dense, eight feet high yew hedge. He didn't mind. His eyelids were drooping, and the steady buzz of insects all around him lulled him to sleep in no time at all.

He woke to the cry of a bird. Slightly bemused about finding himself where he was, he searched the sky. A sparrowhawk circled above the garden, slowly gaining height. He wished he could circle there as well, the wind in his hair, his robes billowing behind him.

He was stirred out of his wistful musings by Great-aunt Lucrecia returning home.

... 

She seemed to be bursting with freshly gathered intelligence.

No sooner had they sat down for dinner than she started, "Narcissa, my girl, I hear you were saved by a law of 1717, introduced by a hopeless romantic of a Minister and not once used ever since. And the irony of the _Statute on Adequate Legal Action_ used in your favour is simply priceless. Do you know who originally cooked it up and fought it through? None other than that notorious meddler Dumbledore and his daft sidekick Elphias Doge. For once, they have given us a good laugh. Don't you think so?"

Draco made no sound. He carefully kept his eyes on his shepherd's pie.

"Sparing their adversaries a stay in Azkaban does not mean the people so inconveniently risen to power don't find ways to humiliate them," his mother observed, not remotely sharing the old witch's merriment. "Obviously, they opted for depriving them of their possessions and social status."

"Don't give Shacklebolt, Potter, and rest of the bunch more credit than they deserve._ That_ doesn't come from their corner. I daresay they are less aware of what is going on in certain departments than they would wish."

The pie had lost all its appeal.

He wished he could stop listening. He didn't want to hear such news. He didn't want to hear about Potter being in some sort of trouble – not because he cared about Potter, but because it meant that the turmoil still wasn't over, and that he might be dragged in all over again. He wanted to be anywhere but where the fights took place.

"My sources tell me that Higgs dug out a _Restitution Act_ proclaimed two and half centuries ago. Our celebrated war heroes were apparently thrilled with having another age-old law hitherto ignored for good reason. As it seems, they haven't yet realised that the law in question does not require decisions made by the Wizengamot. The Head Bailiff can act on her own."

"And she certainly avails herself of that right," his mother put in sourly.

"Quite so. You haven't been her only victim, if probably the favourite one. However, don't fool yourself. Her actions _are_ in accordance with 'standing law'." She spat the word as if it had a foul taste. "I also heard a weird rumour about you, Narcissa. Is it true you sided with Potter in the very end?"

Draco almost gasped.

"Exactly as you say – _rumours_. Under other circumstances, I'd be inclined to call them slander. The obnoxious brat, how dare he assume my motives!" his mother replied briskly. Then, she lowered her voice to a whisper and added, "Listen, this is strictly between us – it was a simple case of letting one pest wipe out the other. I'm Slytherin enough to know when to abandon a sinking ship."

"Fancy that!" Great-aunt Lucrecia eyed his mother with a sudden caution. "What made you think the _boy_ would win?"

"Nothing. Potter as a person is of little consequence," his mother went on. Her voice was so quiet that Draco had to strain his ears to hear her. "But I didn't see why I should devote myself any longer to a self-styled lord who had evidently just failed to execute his own plans. We endured two full years of his overbearing behaviour because of his alleged superiority, but somebody who isn't even able to kill an unarmed teenager at close range can hardly be considered the most powerful and accomplished wizard of all times."

"Seems you handled the situation quite skilfully."

"Thank you."

"The rumours are still objectionable."

"Unfortunately, they are. However, since the ridiculous view Potter took on the event in the Forbidden Forest clearly helped me in court, it wouldn't be prudent to complain too loudly at present."

Hesitantly, the great-aunt agreed, "Yes, you'll have to bide your time. That filth won't rule our world forever."

Draco didn't have time to marvel at that exchange. The old witch rounded on him without a second's warning.

... 

12. The Last Straw

"Now to you, little spawn of a mediocre wizard fancying himself an influential man," Great-aunt Lucrecia addressed him. "I heard you spilled the beans?"

"I b-beg your pardon?" he managed, a wave of alarm washing over him.

"You conveniently forgot, eh? I can help you: You took a good swig of Veritaserum and then you got really chatty."

Burning heat rose to his temples.

"The blame lies partially with me," he heard his mother's voice over the loud pounding of his heart. "I advised him to say nothing at all. It might have been wiser to volunteer information where it would do little damage. The Aurors might have been mollified with-"

"You'll keep out of this," the great-aunt snapped in her direction. "I'm trying to figure out whether you were only lax in his upbringing or whether he is indeed a few twigs short of a broom."

His mother inhaled sharply; he kept his eyes firmly trained on the plate before him.

"Explain yourself, young man!" the great-aunt demanded.

"She poured a glass of pumpkin juice for herself," he croaked, almost paralysed with mortification. "_First_ for herself. She _drank_ _first_. I thought..."

He hadn't been thinking at all. He wasn't able to think straight right now. No words suited to help him out were coming to his mind.

Once he had been good with words. He could casually drop nasty little remarks, he could talk big and make veiled threats, he could drawl or jeer just as the situation required. It had been the one thing he had been really good at. It was gone.

"I doubt you thought at all," the great-aunt said. "The Veritaserum wasn't in the juice but in the glass, _your_ glass! The Aurors deposited it there beforehand."

"How was I to know that?" he mumbled in a pathetic attempt to placate her.

"That's easy – never trust an Auror!" she rejoined. "They are bound to try and trick you. They get paid for it, after all."

The contempt in the old witch's voice told him how people would regard him henceforth. He would be considered a weak and gullible man, too unreliable to be trusted. The bad thing wasn't that it was true – he was faint-hearted and all too easy to fool. The bad thing was that people now knew or, at any rate, were going to know soon.

"So you are the average Malfoy poser, aren't you? That family has turned out a fair number of show-offs with no skills worth mentioning. I don't see to this day why my sister had to go and marry one of that lot," – she shot his mother a reproving look – "she could have done so much better... I guess she fell for the impressive facade. True, the Malfoys have always had influence, but not because of outstanding magical talent. No, they've always bought their way in. They've paved the roads to wherever they wanted to be with Galleons. One might wonder where all the beautiful money comes from since there isn't so much accomplishment in them. Well, the answer is simple: They've managed, time and again, to marry rich witches. Which reminds me, young man. We oughtn't to dally in marrying you off. You aren't planning on staying here for the whole five years, are you?"

Draco's head almost moved of its own accord. He wouldn't stay here for five days if he could help it.

"Thought so," the great-aunt muttered. Louder, she continued, "So, has there any girl struck your fancy yet?"

"I don't think it prudent to rush these things," his mother put in. "Considering our current situation and the overall political upheaval-"

"Quite the reverse, my girl," the old witch cut her short. "The early bird catches the worm! Rather act now, while that up-start Shacklebolt and his henchmen are preoccupied with administering 'justice' to the wizarding world, and while the people of reputable descent haven't yet fully caught on to the lamentable gossip about your son."

To his horror, his mother gave a slight nod, and the great-aunt continued, "Of course, we cannot choose from Death Eater families, which is a pity. Many of the finest bloodlines are in that area. A lot of wealth used to be amassed there, too, and that's a pity again. The new authority will strip them off their property just like they did with you. In short, we'll need to find a well-heeled, pure-blood family whose reputation with both sides is still intact."

He abandoned the last wisp of hope that she might be merely mulling over future possibilities. She was serious. She was hell-bent on playing matchmaker for him, and on doing so soon.

He glanced at his mother. She appeared to be completely engrossed in the subject and did not notice his silent plea for guidance.

"He's handsome. One has to give him that, even if not much else can be said for the pampered brat." The old witch talked as if he wasn't there. "Well, let's see then – who might be most in want of a _handsome_ husband? Ah, yes, there's an idea. I shall write the Bulstrodes first thing tomorrow morning."

Draco involuntarily recoiled. Millicent? Never! That girl washed her hair about once a month – provided it was a long month.

"Millicent was in Draco's year. Slytherin, of course," his mother said. "Draco, do you think she's a-"

"No, no, the older one, Araminta," Great-aunt Lucrecia interrupted her for the third time. "Her being a tad older – a mere six years or so – than the young gentleman here will make up nicely for his immaturity. Besides, older daughters get larger dowries."

... 

13. Away in a Mad Rush

He didn't even try to lie in the bed. He paced the small space between the window and the bulky chest of drawers like a caged animal.

So this was what he had been brought up for – marrying a fat cow who was as slack as she was ugly in order to collect a dowry for his family! Plus, by the old bat's insinuation, this was not only his destiny, but also the fate of Malfoy men in general.

He refused to ... he wasn't sure what he refused to do, he just... refused. He'd had it. He was done with... with... with...

He threw his whiffy pillow across the room in frustration. The pent-up emotions wanted out, but the only way he had ever known to let them go was by bullying the next best person who seemed weak enough to succumb.

Oh yes, it had been a great method to hide that – in actual fact – _he_ was the weakling. At any rate, it had served to hide that titbit of unpleasant truth from himself. He wasn't so sure anymore that he had ever fooled anyone else.

He had put every effort into making his parents proud of him, but he had most horribly failed. Maybe his mother was better off without him around.

He had swapped the wooden statuettes with the Muggle money before he even realised what he was doing. He hid the works of art beneath his dress robes at the bottom of his trunk and filled the remaining space in the rucksack with random clothes.

He became dimly aware that his mother might worry. He searched for stationery, but all he found was a stub of pencil.

He wrote directly on the lid of his trunk,

_Mother,  
I cannot stay. Forgive me.  
D._

Forgive me? What did he want forgiveness for? For not turning out the wonderful son she had expected him to be?

He had tried so hard.

He had tried so in vain.

He stared at his writing without actually seeing it. Then, abruptly, he jerked round and made for the door. He turned back almost instantaneously, wrenched the _Code of Conduct_ out of the trunk, and stuffed it into the rucksack.

He turned to leave, but went back a second time to fetch his toothbrush and shaving kit.

His glance fell on the writing once more.

Six words.

Six words for... an urge that was beyond words... an urge to be anywhere but in his own skin. He spun round and bolted.

He rushed down to the kitchen. Without seeing much in the semi-darkness, he filled a hip flask with water and crammed as much food into the already full rucksack as would fit in. He nipped out through the back door and ran down the narrow, hedged in lane that led to a broader one nearly two miles away.

There, he slowed down a bit, panting.

He turned and went westward so the rising sun would not blind him. He didn't feel like the direction mattered in any other respect. His destination was simply called _away_.

There wasn't just Lucrecia Runcorn from whom he wanted to get away. There was something else from which he wanted to get away, and more urgently so. He couldn't put a name to it. He didn't want to think about it, either. He kept up the quickest pace possible, and, finally, his footfall started to drown out his thoughts.

... 

After several miles of brisk walking across farmland alternating with groves, he neared a settlement. He chose a footpath that wound its way through fenced-in vegetable gardens. Soon he reached an area of overgrown dogwood shrubs where the path narrowed to one third of its previous width. The path curved sharply to the right and ended at a train station, a _Muggle_ train station.

He stood there for almost an hour, watching trains arrive and leave again. There wasn't the slightest amount of steam or smoke issuing from the engines, yet the trains moved. Muggles got on and off, Muggles headed to and fro. There were signs saying enigmatic things like _Park & Ride_ or _No Smoking_. One sign said _Ticket Office_.

_Ticket Office_ was a term he understood. A weird idea formed in his head.

He took some of the purplish Muggle banknotes from his rucksack and studied them. Besides the Muggle queen there was the picture of a man on horseback, fighting an odd, winged animal. He wondered briefly whether it was meant to be a baby dragon. It seemed unlikely, however, since Muggles were not supposed to know about dragons.

Next to the picture were the words _twenty Pounds_, printed in capital letters. Did twenty Pounds equal twenty Galleons or was the slip of paper not more worth than a couple of Knuts? He was about to decide that his grandfather wouldn't have bothered if the latter were the case when a line of tiniest printing caught his eye, "I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of" – it was the beginning of a sentence, a sentence that ended with the words _twenty Pounds_ in capital letters! A bit further down followed London – also in capital letters – and something about a _Bank of England_.

What did this mean? Weren't these rectangles real money, real _Muggle_ money at any rate? Were they merely the promise of twenty Pounds – pounds of what? Gold? – to be obtained at a place somewhere in London?

He turned the note over. There were more pictures: a Muggle leaning on a stack of books, and, on the left hand side, a girl standing on a balcony, and a young man looking up to her. The only piece of information given was a name and a life span. It didn't help in the least.

He wasn't sure what to think. Didn't it seem a downright Mugglish idea to use little, ridiculous pictures as money? Everybody with a good pen could forge them. On the other hand, Muggles were in all probability too simple-minded to think of forgery.

There was only one way to find out.

When he saw the next train approaching, he went to the ticket office.

"Where to?" a sullen-faced Muggle asked him, barely looking up from the counter.

"Where does that train over there go?" Draco asked, gesturing towards the platform.

The reply was so slurred that the only recognisable words were _railway station_. A smell that reminded Draco of firewhiskey emanated from the Muggle's mouth.

"Then, I want a ticket there," he said with fake poise. As an afterthought, he added, "A single ticket."

Muttering unintelligibly under his foul breath, the Muggle snatched away some of the banknotes Draco was holding out to him. After some fumbling, he returned an unadorned slip of paper and a handful of assorted coins along with an almost deadly glare.

Draco hastily pocketed ticket and change and boarded the train. It was in many respects different from the Hogwarts Express. It lacked, for example, compartments. The carriages were simply filled with rows and rows of seats.

He would have preferred to be on his own, but as this was obviously impossible he sat down in a free seat where he at least didn't have to endure an immediate neighbour. He did his best to ignore the multitude of Muggles around him and kept staring out of the grimy window without paying any heed to the landscape rushing past.

The train moved with considerable speed; it reached its destination before noon.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 


	5. Part 05

14. Stranger in a Strange World

He left the station without enthusiasm. He couldn't say why going to a city had sounded appealing to him some three hours earlier. The place was just as ugly, busy, stinking, and loud as Muggle London. Muggle cars were rushing around, droning and roaring and hooting. A sudden screeching noise right behind him made him jump. A Muggle in an absurdly orange jacket yelled at him about whether he was completely stoned and that he should move his arse off the street.

Resenting the Muggle's behaviour and foul language, Draco moved to the side – and was almost run over by one of the stupid cars. The darn vehicle screeched to a halt mere inches away from him; the Muggle inside looked livid.

He hastened to get away, but soon he found himself drifting along with the largest crowd. He believed this to be the safest method – provided that Muggles were not as inane as not to know their way around in their own, awful cities. Sometimes the Muggles he followed would stop for some unknown reason and wait until a larger group was gathered. Then, as if prompted by a secret signal, they set off as one.

Before long the crowd dispersed, and he was left to his own devices in the maze of criss-crossing streets.

He opted against following single individuals. Instead, he made for a patch of greenery that loomed to his left, but the park turned out to be disappointingly small.

So, he walked on until he reached a river. The opposite shore looked less urban and, therefore, more inviting.

He found a ferry and used two of the coins to pay the fee.

... 

The new town was smaller and quieter. The cars were fewer and moved at a more moderate pace. They still left bitter-smelling fumes in their wake, but most of them sat neatly arranged in several rows where they emitted neither noise nor stench.

He gave the sleeping cars a wide berth and left the town, following a lane that headed roughly southwest. He had, for quite some time, a lake to his right and green hillside to his left. He didn't pause to look at either, he simply walked on. When another Muggle settlement appeared, he passed it by, turning slightly left and climbing a hill. The hill was followed by a dell and a second hill. After that came a second dell and then more hills.

The sun was high in the sky, and he felt hot and sweaty. The straps of the rucksack hurt his shoulders; his shoes, despite having been custom-made and expensive, hurt his feet. He kept trudging on, though, until he encountered a genuine obstacle – a stretch of water that reached straight to the horizon.

He sat down on the warm sand, well out of the way of a gaggle of bathing Muggles. He had no idea what to do next or where to go now.

It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten the whole day, and he took out some of the food he had lifted in the morning. Thanks to the frenzy he had been in, his stock consisted solely of peanuts and onions. He ate a handful of peanuts, but without appetite. He was too exhausted. He emptied the hip flask to the last drop, and then he leaned back against his rucksack and closed his eyes.

... 

He woke to the words, "Nothing serious, Jory. Doesn't smell of weed or booze."

"Maybe he injects?" another voice said.

"Heaven forbid..."

Draco felt his left sleeve suddenly being moved upwards. The amount of adrenaline that shot through his veins made him wide awake from one instant to the next. He jerked upwards, trying to pull his arm back.

"Easy now, young man," the Muggle who held his arm said in warning tones. Aside, addressing his companion, he added, "No, fine. Just an ugly tattoo."

"The taste of young folks nowadays is simply beyond me," the other replied.

Draco tried again to yank his arm free.

The Muggle let go, yet commanded simultaneously, "Gather your belongings and come."

Draco reached for his rucksack and peered quickly inside. Everything seemed to be still there. So, they apparently weren't robbers.

"What do you want?" he asked and scolded himself inwardly at the same moment because, instead of demanding, the question had sounded pathetically fearful.

"Look, we can't have that here," the Muggle said. "It starts with one youth sleeping on the beach. The next thing we know is the whole place littered with tents, illegal campfires and mounds of left-behind junk. And that, in turn, will scare off other tourists, especially the ones with the habit of spending their money here every summer. Our local economy depends on tourism you see. Now be good and come."

Draco slowly got up, not taking his eyes off the two identically clad Muggles for a single moment. Something in their behaviour reminded him of Aurors.

They ushered him back to the lane from which he had come. He had difficulty walking; his feet hurt more than they had done the previous night.

The Muggles led him towards a standing car. The older one opened a door at the side of the vehicle and motioned for Draco to step closer.

"Get in," he said. "We don't have all day."

"No!" Draco cried out, backing off in alarm and bumping into the younger Muggle.

"Calm down, you twit!" the man said, grabbing Draco's upper arms. "You aren't arrested. We'll just give you a ride."

"No!" Draco cried again, and more horrified than before. He wrenched himself out of the man's grip and took flight.

Despite his hurting feet, he ran at top speed. Only when his lungs started to hurt as well, he risked a backwards glance. There was no sign of the Muggles or their ruddy car. He slowed to a halt.

His feet were agonizing. Still fighting for air, he sat down on a patch of grass beside the lane and took his shoes and socks off. There were blisters, and the largest ones were filled with darkened blood.

He sighed. What could he do with no wand to perform a pain-easing spell and no ointment to rub on?

After a while, he stood up and set off again. Carefully placing his bare feet only where the ground looked smooth, he walked at a snail's pace towards a little village that loomed in the distance. It took him the better part of two hours to get there.

... 

Trethwyn was not quite the size of Hogsmeade. There was a tiny square where four or five streets met. The middle of the square was marked by a well that had obviously fallen dry. He slumped down onto the plain, wooden bench that stood next to it.

He felt kind of ill. He was thirsty, his face burned like the Mark once had, his stomach made loud, rumbling noises, and the sore spots on his shoulders hurt almost as much as his feet.

He sat there for about ten minutes, doing nothing.

The place was agreeably quiet. Only few Muggles were bustling about, and the cars crawling tentatively along the cobbled streets were even fewer. The shops, except the baker's, had a closed look about them. A large poster above the shop window of the bakery advertised a special breakfast offer.

A plate of scrambled eggs and a nice cup of milk... The thought was enthralling. Irresistible, to be correct. He could pretend he didn't know a Muggle had been the cook.

He was about to put his socks and shoes back on, when a shadow fell on his feet.

"Still here?" somebody asked.

Draco looked up and into the face of the Muggle he had run from earlier. The dark epaulettes on the man's white shirt featured three chevrons and a couple of letters and numbers, respectively. The other Muggle was there, too, and so was the multi-coloured car with _POLICE_ written on it.

Draco bit back a sigh. How could he possibly have known that Muggles had a law against sleeping on the beach?

... 

15. Happy Birthday, Draco

"That's why you camped out at Maiden's Cliff?" the Muggle asked, pointing to Draco's feet. "The blisters? You could have said."

Draco gave a minuscule shrug. He was out of options – he had no wand to hex the git, no knowledge to argue back, and no strength left to run once more.

The Muggle prattled on about being willing to help.

"Come," he said when Draco was done putting his shoes on. "She won't mind opening her office half an hour early if _I_ ask her."

"Whatever you suggest," Draco said softly, well aware that anyone would consider his compliance as disgraceful. Goyle, or Nott, or Greengrass would be bent double with laughter if they saw him _obeying_ _a_ _Muggle_. His father would give him a telling off that topped each and every previous one.

The Muggle knocked at a shop window and waved at someone inside. Thirty seconds later a woman opened the adjacent door and peered out, a curious expression in her eyes.

"Morning, Lowenna," the Muggle grinned. Slapping Draco nonchalantly on his tender shoulder, he went on, "Here, a backpacker. Jory and I caught him sleeping near Maiden's Cliff. Find him some accommodation that is less expensive than the fine for a second offence."

"Don't worry, dear," the woman said, beckoning Draco in. "Of course, we have lodgings for young people with a small travelling budget."

She asked his name, date of birth, and place of residence, and he gave her, out of habit, his address in Wiltshire. He didn't correct the mistake; the Muggle had no business knowing anything about him anyway.

"You should do something about your sunburn," she said conversationally, while she busied herself with papers. "Skin cancer is nothing to trifle with."

He didn't answer, and she put two sheets of paper on the counter.

One he was to give the proprietor, a Mr Penwith, the other one was a sketchy map of the village. She marked the way to Mr Penwith's house with an oddly thick, orange pencil.

"Enjoy your stay at Trethwyn," she smiled. "And, by the way, Happy Birthday!"

Caught completely off guard, he simply stared at her.

She laughed and pointed to the calendar on the wall. It showed June the fifth.

... 

He exited the little office, trying to hide his trembling.

A year ago, he had spent most of the day whimpering on the floor. The monster had reappeared every time the clock had struck a full hour and had cast another Cruciatus in order to remind Draco how worthless he was.

He limped back to the bench and sat there again, willing himself to calm down, to stop remembering. It didn't work. The monster had been pretty successful in making sure he wouldn't forget. Maybe one of the reasons why the Ministry stripped the Death Eaters of their wands was to prevent them from performing Memory Charms on themselves.

Distraction eventually came in the person of a corpulent Muggle who sat down next to him. She had a white, smouldering stick in her mouth. The fumes that issued from the burning end stung his nose and almost drove tears to his eyes.

He got up, whereupon an aged, frail-looking woman sat down in his place, thanking him profusely. He hastened to get away from those weird folk.

... 

The special breakfast offer turned out to be a plastic bag filled with assorted rolls. Cocoa was sold in cardboard boxes. He marvelled at how the Muggles kept the cardboard from going soggy.

The two young Muggle women working at the baker's appeared to be excessively pleased about being able to sell him Cheddar sandwiches – daintily decorated with parsley and bits of tomato – and a large mug of steaming hot tea. Just like the woman in the office, they told him to do something about his sunburn because skin cancer was a serious matter. They suggested he should ask for an "après solaire" lotion in the shop next door.

He actually followed their advice. His chances of getting his hands on a _proper_ burn-healing paste were zero, and if the liniments of the Muggles were only half as good as their cheese sandwiches, he could give them at least a try.

The shop owner swiftly selected two products she thought the most appropriate for him. She also felt compelled to give him comprehensive instructions about how to use them – how to heal the current burn and to avoid further ones in the future. In addition, she recommended wearing a hat. There was headgear of various designs on display, and he chose a plain blue cap with a round part sticking out at the front.

"Well, that's eleven sixty," she said.

He had spent the last coins at the baker's, so he reached into his rucksack and brought out several purplish banknotes.

The Muggle frowned.

She didn't touch the one he laid onto the counter, but said, "You do know they are out of date, don't you?"

For yet another time this morning, he felt seized by panic. He depended on that money! Without it, he couldn't even go back to Runcorn's place.

"Are they worthless?" he managed, threading the answer.

"Well, no, of course not. But you need to change them," she said kindly. "Where did you get them, anyway?"

"My grandfather said I should have them," he answered absently while he tried to figure out what she meant by "change them".

"Well, that's elderly people for you. The old twenty pound notes were withdrawn in 1993; maybe you were a bit young then," she mused. "Well, love, I'll take that one here so you can have your sunburn remedy right away."

She took the banknote from the counter. While she put his purchase into a colourful plastic bag, she went on, "But for the rest of them you'll have to go to the post office. In the high season, tourists from abroad often try to pay bills with old money kept after a visit here about ten years ago. We are a holiday region; we need to keep our tourists happy. So, Mr Tregantle of our local post office usually takes care of that sort of thing. It spares the foreigners a trip to the city in order to change a single five pound note."

"Would he change two hundred?" he asked.

"Well," – she glanced at the paper rectangles in his hand – "two hundred pounds sound pretty much to me..."

He had meant two hundred banknotes. In fact, two hundred banknotes did not even amount to one tenth of what he had in his rucksack. The disillusionment must have shown on his face because she gave him a smile that was overtly sympathetic.

"Perhaps you had better go to Higher Holebrook, then. Or to Plymouth. You can go by coach. Wait a sec."

She disappeared into the backroom and returned with a crumpled leaflet.

"Here, look. This is a list of all bank houses that will change old money without fuss, some of them up to one thousand pounds at a time. And here, building societies, too." She held the leaflet out to him. "You can have that. I've got another one."

He took it and – remembering too late that he was talking to a Muggle – said, "Thank you, Ma'am."

She smiled.

"You're welcome."

... 

Outside the shop, he consulted the village map. The post office appeared to be situated a mere fifty yards off the path marked in orange.

He traipsed down the cobbled street, trying to devise a clever plan. Since he couldn't hex the servant into co-operating, he would have to convince him with well-chosen words and a credible story. But what kind of tale would a Muggle consider credible, and what, on the other hand, would raise instant suspicion?

... 

16. Muggles

Despite his hurting feet, he had reached the office building sooner than he had reached a decision. He had got by so far, but probably by sheer luck.

He replayed the conversation with the friendly shop owner in his head while he transferred sundry banknotes from his rucksack to his pocket. Then, he went in.

"Good morning," he said because showing formal politeness seemed advisable in the given situation. After all, he was here to ask a favour. "Mr Tregantle?"

"I am Mr Tregantle," the Muggle said gravely. "What can I do for you, young man?"

"I... er... found a number of old banknotes among my late grandfather's belongings." Why was sounding calm and collected so much harder to achieve than it used to be? He wasn't even lying! "He died in 1985, and judging by the layer of dust that covered everything, nobody has touched any of his things ever since."

"And you thought the money would come in handy when going on your holidays." It was a statement, not a question.

"Err... something like that..." The Muggle's steady gaze unnerved him. "They said in the shop you would change out-dated money."

"That depends. How much did you find?"

Instead of answering, Draco took out the little package of various banknotes. The Muggle took it and counted the notes with amazing swiftness.

"Two hundred and fifteen," he said and reached for a form and a pen. "What did you say your name was?"

"Draco Malfoy."

The Muggle nodded distractedly while he filled in the form.

Draco watched him. He wasn't used to such complete lack of reaction to his name. Lately, disdain and hatred had predominated. Perhaps, under the circumstances, he should view going unnoticed as an improvement.

The man had him sign the form and seemed perfectly content with the pitiful scrawl Draco produced with the unwonted Muggle pen. He leisurely counted out the new banknotes.

"There you are, young man," he said eventually.

"Thanks," Draco mumbled, embarrassed not so much by having to thank a Muggle but by the fact that he did feel something very much like gratitude because this whole exchange business had gone so smoothly.

"That's alright." The Muggle gave him a restrained smile. "You should do something about that sunburn. Perhaps you try olive oil; they said on TV it would help."

Draco managed a nod in response to that piece of mystifying advice and left.

... 

Slowly, he made his way inland. The lane went ever so slightly uphill. Thanks to the blisters, he hobbled more than he walked. It took him half an hour to reach his designated accommodation, located well away from the village. And it took him just as long to brace himself for another encounter with a Muggle.

There were three small buildings, including a hen house. An area of grassland was fenced in as a run for the birds.

The owner was in his late seventies, gaunt and of medium height. His clothes were as faded as his thin hair. He was feeding the chickens when Draco arrived.

Mr Penwith seemed both surprised and excited about getting a lodger. Enthusiastically, he fetched a couple of keys from one building and then led the way to the other, the one Draco had believed to be a barn.

He thrust the keys at Draco, telling him to unlock the entrance door.

"It's the big one, the big key," he instructed. "The safety key is for your room upstairs."

Followed by the old Muggle, Draco went in.

The hall was laid with bricks; the only light came from a lone, narrow window. Two doors were strait ahead, marked with the words _Gents_ and _Ladies_, respectively. The door nearest to the entrance was labelled _No_ _Admittance_.

They had to climb stairs that bore a strong resemblance to a ladder. Five doors led off the first floor landing.

"Number two," the old Muggle said, wheezing. "You can have number two."

Draco opened the door that had a large, silvery "2" nailed to it and stepped into the room beyond. He couldn't help but gape at the sight that met him. There was nothing except a bed, a chair and a locker – no fireplace, no carpet, no hangings, no anything. Not even the infamous _Burrow_, the filthy, Ghoul-infested hut of the Weasley clan, could be _that_ austere.

"That's the biggest room," the Muggle said. "It's all yours."

"The _biggest_ room?" Draco echoed, aghast. That so-called room was about the size of a broom closet!

"What did you expect?" the Muggle retorted somewhat defiantly. "I'm not the Ritz."

Draco stared at the ugly, whitish sculpture beneath the window. It was the only piece of decoration in this room and, at that, clear evidence of abysmally bad taste.

"What now?" the Muggle asked, confused. "Do you want to stay or not?"

Did he want to stay? _Here_? Draco thought of his hurting feet and of the sad fact that there was no solution closer by than the bed in front of him. He also pondered the possibility that Muggle dwellings might look like this in general. If so, this place was as good as any other. And what was more – no-one, no Auror or other Ministry clerk would suspect him staying _here_, Lucrecia Runcorn least of all.

"Err... I guess," he said, "yeah..."

"Good, good," the Muggle sighed with relief. "Make yourself comfortable, then... By the way, I get paid in advance. No offence, young man, but there are such people that will sneak out before sunrise. Happened to me two times last year; I never saw no money."

"How much-"

"It's eight per night. No breakfast, though, only bed. My wife used to cook for the lodgers. But, alas, she is no more... So that's why it's only bed. You can get a snack at the baker's down in the village. And _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_ opens at half past-" He broke off in mid-sentence when he spied the money Draco had taken out.

"You're staying longer?" he sputtered.

"I haven't decided yet," Draco said. He had no immediate plans – no plans whatsoever to be correct – but he needed some days of rest. He'd stay at least until he could walk properly again.

"Yes, yes, no problem, not at all," the old Muggle hastily assured him, his eyes fixed on the money. "You can stay the whole summer if you like."

Maybe not, Draco thought. The room was spartan even for a hidey-hole. He nevertheless proffered nearly one half of his valid money to the Muggle.

While the old man eagerly counted the banknotes, Draco glanced around. The window faced east and wasn't too big. There were no candles.

"Where is-" he started.

"The loo?" the old man cut in. "Downstairs. The bathroom to the right is for gents. Remember not to walk into the other one 'by accident'. Sexual harassment counts as a crime these days. That reminds me. No drugs and no smoking in here. Booze I don't mind as long as you don't puke all over the bed sheets. And as for young ladies, well, I'll be sure to look the other way."

He pocketed the money and turned to leave.

"I meant to ask how I can get some light in here," Draco said quickly.

"Light?" The Muggle gave him an odd look. He slapped a spot on the wall right next to the door whereupon the entire room filled with bright light. He slapped the same spot again, and the light vanished. "Any other questions?"

Flabbergasted, Draco shook his head.

The Muggle left, and Draco sank down onto the bed.

He reached for the pillow and sniffed it.

It smelled of lavender.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 


	6. Part 06

17. Money and Memories

He spent the next two days nursing the sunburn – the Muggle medicine was surprisingly effective – and the blisters. He didn't walk any further than the bathroom.

While his feet had their much-needed rest, his brain found no rest at all. Random thoughts, vague fears, and the most unwanted memories tumbled through his mind. He could not focus on anything. In fact, he felt too tired to try to. Despite the exhaustion, he couldn't sleep at night. In the darkness, the haunting images were even more vivid.

There was nothing to calm his nerves – no Cheering Charm, no Sleeping Draught, no Pensieve to store away at least the most troubling thoughts.

He wanted to stop thinking but couldn't. The moment he closed his eyes, he saw Chimera-headed flames roaring up. Memories pushed their way up into his consciousness with brutal force, and it seemed their stream would never cease – his unconscious mother was lying next to him on the floor, his father was writhing in agony, the monster was forcing Bellatrix Lestrange to put a Cruciatus on herself, Greyback was breathing into his face, She-Carrow was spitting at him, He-Carrow was yelling at him, Snape was glaring at him, Goyle was sneering at him, Pansy was laughing at him, Dumbledore was falling backwards – ever so slowly – over the battlements...

He wanted to cry but couldn't. No tears would come.

He had had frequent breakdowns in the course of the past two years – either in the Ghost Girl's bathroom or in his grandfather's study. Somehow, he had always managed to walk out of the respective room with the required expression of pure-blood superiority back on his face. He couldn't really tell where the strength had come from. Fear for his and his parents' lives had kept him going during the most part of his sixth year at Hogwarts. At some point in seventh year, a basic survival instinct had taken over, compelling him to fade as much as possible into the background – more often than not literally thanks to his skill at casting Disillusionment Charms.

But now with the worst horrors being over, now when he should relax and rejoice and recover, he couldn't even cry anymore. Every last grain of energy seemed gone.

... 

He forced himself to eat the stale rolls. Swallowing seemed a real effort. Once he threw up afterwards. Several times, he was seized by shivering fits.

On the third day, he ran out of provisions. He couldn't bring himself to leave the house because the weather had changed. It poured with rain. He tried to eat the onions but gave up soon.

The following morning, after a sleepless night plagued with hunger and harrowing memories, he gasped at his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't shaved in days, the skin had started to peel of in places, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He looked thin. He knew he had lost weight since his trousers had become more than a little loose.

He had to get things back under control.

Although neither of the two taps in the shower cubicle – a sad affair apparently knocked together by particularly inept Muggles – provided warm water, he took a shower. For some reason, the cold water stinging his skin helped him to steel himself for an outing.

He didn't have a towel so he dried himself with a vest.

... 

The rain had diminished to a drizzle when he set off for the village.

In less than ten minutes, he was at the baker's where he stuffed himself with assorted sandwiches. Feeling decidedly better afterwards, he made the shop girls happy by buying a bag of rolls and several boxes of cocoa. He also asked them where he could purchase a towel and promptly got a rambling description of each and every retailer in the vicinity.

... 

The towel shop wasn't difficult to find. The extra-large specimens on display in the shop window were yet another proof of the Muggles' lack of taste. They all had questionable pictures printed on them: oversized dogs and cats with pink collars or sparsely clothed women.

He went in nonetheless. He asked for plain towels and was shown a small selection thereof. He decided on a thick, soft one of purest white.

And then he made a mistake. A dressing gown hanging on a stand had caught his eye. It's style was fairly elegant, and it matched the towel in colour. The thought of having it was alluring. After all, he had to cross public territory when going to the bathroom, and it wasn't unreasonable to think that there might be other lodgers soon.

Smiling jovially, the shop assistant fetched the gown from the stand and held it out to him. The fabric felt warm and velvety. He nodded, allowing himself to imagine the sensation it would cause on his naked shoulders. He did have a weakness for comfortable garments, for smooth textiles like silk, for things warm and soft that were made of cashmere... Although this gown here was made of something he knew no name for, the idea of it gently caressing his thighs as he moved held him in its sway. His reverie came to an abrupt end when the shop assistant told him the price.

While he frantically tried to determine what would be the least disgrace – trying to pay with out-dated banknotes again, making excuses and saying he had to go and change money first, or admitting he couldn't afford buying both items – the Muggle cheerfully babbled about promotion weeks and busied herself with one of those odd, noisy boxes that apparently belonged in any Muggle shop. When she was done making the device clatter, she handed him the bill it had produced. Mysteriously, the sum had dwindled down by exactly five percent. He realised that he could pay now, but only just so.

He left the shop both dazed and relieved.

On the way back to his lodgings, he pondered his situation. He had a towel, a dressing gown that was probably luxurious by Muggle standards, provisions for two days, and some small change that would buy no more than a cup of tea and a single sandwich at the baker's.

... 

18. Abraxas Malfoy

In search of the settlement he had passed by on his way here, he went northeast early the next morning. He needed to change more of his grandfather's money, but going to the post office here in Trethwyn for a second time would surely raise suspicion.

He marched at a good pace; the cold wind blowing in from the sea almost shoved him forward. Initially, the air had a somewhat salty flavour, which became less detectable the more hills he crossed. The sky was hung with dark clouds, but it didn't rain.

... 

The place was larger than Trethwyn. Exploring the streets systematically, he found a post office as well as branch offices of two different Muggle bank houses.

His story of dusty banknotes discovered among his late grandfather's belongings met either with sympathy or with indifference. The servant at the post office refused to change more than one hundred pounds, but the other two were more generous. Draco had soon money enough for nearly ten dressing gowns.

... 

The way back to the coast took him a long time. His shoes chafed again and in the very same places as before. He sat down after every mile to take them off for a few minutes. They were custom-made, yes, but for the single purpose of matching his black dinner suit. They were intended for indoor use or, at the utmost, for a short, leisurely stroll around the garden, but never for long walks.

He had worn them for the second dinner at the Great-aunt's, and in his frenzy to get away he hadn't thought of changing into his dragon-hide boots. And sadly, proper boots weren't the only thing he had failed to think of. He had no trousers or jackets apart from the ones he was wearing. After a week of constant use including a nap on the beach, they had an uncomfortable, grubby feel about them. He didn't have the faintest idea how to get garments clean without spells.

There had to be a method because the appearance of most Muggles was neat and tidy. Except for his grandfather, nobody had ever told him how to do things without magic. Doing things without magic simply wasn't on.

Grandfather Abraxas, defying decorous manners, had taught him how to tie his shoelaces without Dobby's help. He had explained how to make fire with a magnifying glass or how to tell the compass points by the stars. The latter had been pretty much beyond a five-year-old's grasp, but when Sinistra had given a lecture on the subject, Draco had remembered his grandfather's words.

He tried to recall more details about his grandfather. It wasn't too difficult because his mother had made sure he learned not only the names of his ancestors but also the basics of their biographies like dates of birth, marriage, and death as well as what honours they had received and what their major accomplishments had been. He knew the complete data of seven generations by heart.

Grandfather Abraxas was the son of Great-aunt Lucrecia's older sister Sibylla. He had married a nearly eleven year older, exceptionally rich widow from Scotland in 1906. The wedding ceremony had taken place in the summer before his grandfather's final year at Hogwarts. So far, Draco had accepted that as a given fact and never wondered about the story behind.

Being still a student, where had Abraxas Malfoy first met a woman more than ten years his senior? A social gathering, a ball or Yule reception for example, seemed most likely. How had they become acquainted? Why had she been interested in a teenager? What had he seen in her?

She hadn't been pretty. Judging from the oil painting and photographs Draco had seen, she hadn't even been handsome. She hadn't been pregnant, either. Or had she? Pregnancy would explain the haste. In that case, however, she must have had a miscarriage later. The first marriage of Draco's grandfather had been childless and had ended after only three years. Draco knew when his grandfather's first wife had died – on August 1, 1909 – but not how.

It had taken Abraxas Malfoy until he was well in his sixties before he had married again, and this time, his wife had been a good thirty years younger than him.

Draco had never known his grandmother. She had been a Death Eater and was killed by Aurors the year before his birth.

Had Grandfather borne the Mark, too? It didn't seem too likely since nobody had ever said anything about Abraxas Malfoy having been a follower of the so-called 'Dark Lord'.

In fact, nobody had ever said much about Abraxas Malfoy at all. Draco's parents had hardly mentioned him.

Slughorn had brushed him off when he had asked.

Was there a catch?

If so, what was it?

Draco recalled the bespectacled, slightly stooped man as being kind, but very earnest. He had probably never seen him smile, let alone laugh. Nevertheless, he had liked to spend time with him. How they would have fared had his grandfather lived longer was hard to tell. Would he still have appreciated the old man's company and teachings as a teenager, or would they have grown apart?

At any rate, he felt gratitude towards Abraxas Malfoy – for the magnifying glass, the money and especially for the unwittingly provided sanctuary. Draco had huddled in the corner of his grandfather's study, hoping that the opening door would still shield him if somebody in search for him peeked in. But nobody – no werewolf, no mad aunt, no monster – had ever tried that door. Draco had never wondered why. He probably hadn't dared to. He had cherished the feeling of comparative safety and had feared that thinking about it might already be enough to destroy it.

There had been one incident, however, that should have made him think. His mother had asked him, "Draco, where have you been?" when he had just stepped out of the room before her very eyes. More than the strange fact that she hadn't seen him – it wasn't entirely impossible; she might have been preoccupied – his own answer should have puzzled him. Rather than, "I was in Grandfather's study," he had said, "Oh, I was just in here somewhere."

He hadn't used the phrase _my_ _grandfather's_ _study_ in any of his conversations with Muggles today. He couldn't utter the words.

There was a logical explanation for this, but it was a peculiar one. What could have driven Abraxas Malfoy to put a Fidelius Charm on a part of his own house?

Thinking back now to life at Malfoy Manor thirteen or fourteen years ago, Draco realised that something had been amiss. He remembered noisy altercations between his father and his grandfather. Some of them might have been actual fights. He didn't know for sure because he had never been anywhere near the action. Usually, at the first sign of any disturbance, Dobby had appeared as if on cue and Apparated him, the small child, away.

Suddenly, his thoughts were galloping down quite another avenue. Like his grandfather, Dobby had vanished from Draco's life without warning. In neither case, he had heard afterwards an explanation compelling enough to help him deal with the unexpected change.

Dobby had reappeared – in a most spectacular way and at the most unexpected moment. He had turned up to Apparate _Potter_ out off harm's way.

As to what creepy twist of fate had brought Dobby into league with _Potter,_ he could only speculate. He could not tell where their former house-elf had been hiding for years, or when and why he had lost the creature's loyalty and fierce determination to protect him. Dobby had rescued Potter, not him. In point of fact, the elf hadn't even spared him a glance.

He still wished Lestrange's knife had missed and buried itself deep into Weasley's thigh rather than into Dobby's chest. Such hopes were, in all probability, futile; Weasley had not limped when they had met soon after.

Unlike Weasley, he was limping. One hill still separated him from his lodgings, and deep down, he was almost glad about the pain in his feet because it distracted him from the pain in his heart.

... 

When he finally returned, an owl was waiting for him.

... 

19. Owl Post

Experienced enough to avoid unnecessary attention, his mother's old tawny owl sat quietly in the bush beneath his window.

Luckily, owls couldn't be tracked. Trailing them was perhaps thinkable in theory, but all witches and wizards who had endeavoured to follow one on broomstick had soon found themselves in the middle of a flock of agitated birds. According to their tales, the owls had circled and swirled around them, blocking both sight and flying path, and then vanished as suddenly as they had gathered. If, occasionally, a single owl had lingered behind, it had never been the one the human pursuers had intended to trail.

Owls were mysterious animals. They were clever and reliable. Above all, they were unconditionally loyal to the addressee of any message they were carrying even if this required to disobey their owner. Draco had never heard of a Ministry owl piloting Aurors to their prey.

There were legends about owls that had led somebody to another human being. In all those cases, however, the person in question had _wanted_ to be found.

... 

Ada watched him enter the house. She didn't stir before he had opened the window for her.

He took the ham-filled roll he had saved up for dinner from the plastic bag, broke it in two, and offered one half to the bird. She accepted, probably understanding that he had no proper owl treats. Ada was the only one of the Malfoy family owls that had survived the troubled times.

... 

His mother's letter was short.

_ Draco,  
Taking into account both the note you left on your trunk and Lucrecia's firm statement about no Auror ever being able to sneak into her house undetected, I assume that you have not been arrested but disappeared due to a whim of your own.  
I expect you to return home without delay.  
Remember to bring the rucksack and its contents with you.  
Sincerely,  
Mother_

He dropped the parchment onto his bed, letting out a sigh.

The owl ruffled her feathers and hooted loudly. Without doubt, she had orders to insist on a reply.

He needed a few minutes to mull the message over, so he went down to the bathroom where he washed slowly the dried blood and the dirt off his feet.

His mother expected him to return home... What _home_? Runcorn's cottage was no more his home than the shoddy place here. He looked round. There was nothing but an admittedly large washbasin and a three-legged stool. Shower cubicle and toilet were separated from the main room by simple hangings made of plastic. The small window had iron bars on the outside, and the floor wasn't tiled but laid with red bricks. He was pretty sure that this building had been a barn before somebody had had the idea of making it into a lodging house.

He put fresh socks on and climbed back to his room, carrying the shoes in his hand. Maybe he should ask the bakery girls where he could acquire slippers.

Of course, staying at Lucrecia Runcorn's would provide him with more luxuries – for the moment. If she had her will, he might be out of her house and in Araminta Bulstrode's bed before the end of the year... He would not shake hands with that girl if he could help it, let alone touch any other part of her body.

... 

He read the few lines from his mother over and over again, trying to discern what she had felt writing them. Had she been worried or disgruntled? Angry?

It was difficult without seeing her face and hearing her tone of voice. He wondered whether he had ever understood her sufficiently. Perhaps his many mistakes were partly due to his lack of perceptiveness.

The stub of pencil was still in his pocket. He turned his mother's note over and wrote on the back,

_ Mother,  
I would like to entreat you not to worry._

He paused. He had to say something that would placate her, something that sounded reasonable enough to stall any plans of searching for him.

_I'm_ _in_ _good_ _health_ _and_ _well_ _accommodated_, he wrote, asking himself whether she would see straight through it. The statement was the peak of exaggeration unless he compared his current situation with being imprisoned in Azkaban.

He still couldn't tell why the Wizengamot had let him off. Lucrecia Runcorn had spoken of century-old laws that apparently allowed for a certain degree of mercy, but why a victorious party would consider using them in favour of the defeated was beyond him.

Then again, Potter's attitude had always been a bit of a mystery to him, and Dumbledore's disciples were all of the same sort somehow.

The owl, perched on the frame of the open window, hooted impatiently.

He shushed her and then continued, _I_ _came_ _here_ _to_ _have_ _some_ _rest_ _after_ _the_ _recent_ _difficulties_, _and_ _I_ _intend_ _to_ _stay_ _a_ _while_ _longer_. _I_ _hope_ _you_ _will_ _understand_ _that_ _revealing_ _my_ _current_ _whereabouts_ _in_ _a_ _letter_ _would_ _not_ _be_ _prudent_.

Owls couldn't be followed but, for some inexplicable reason, they could be intercepted within a range of about one hundred yards around their destination. Maybe the alleged kindness of letting probationers use owls had nothing to do at all with generosity. Maybe the very idea was to provide the Aurors with a convenient means to snoop into people's privacy.

He re-read what he had written and signed.

Any attempt to explain matters further would be futile as long as he hadn't sorted out the tangle of failure and doubt, of contradictions and lies. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had tried to be a dutiful son, and that he needed a break before he would try again. Besides, even if he did elaborate, there was no guarantee his mother would see his point.

His parents hadn't believed him – in fact, they had hardly listened – when he had told them they might have more to fear from a triumph of the monster than from a victory of the other side. During the Yule holidays, he had sought out his parents separately to communicate his fears to them in private. It had been to no avail.

His mother had put his qualms down to a temporary depression caused by the split-up with Pansy. His father had been furious. He had given Draco a reprimand, essentially warning him that if the 'Dark Lord' detected a mere shadow of disloyalty, they'd be dead. He had completely failed to understand – or deliberately chosen to ignore – what Draco had told him. There was no need for any detectable disloyalty or shadow thereof; the monster did not need any reason whatsoever to give orders, nay, to give _permission_ to dispose with certain members of the old families.

Needless to say, Draco hadn't been able to prove his point. It had been gut feeling. In retrospect, he could say his intuition had not been misleading. But no-one had listened to him. His parents had still believed at the end of the _Easter_ holidays they could get back into the monster's good graces.

... 

Before he fastened the parchment to the owl's leg, he reached for the pencil again and wrote a postscript.

_ P.S. I replaced the rucksack with two pillowcases.  
D._

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 


	7. Part 07

20. Settling In

No further owls arrived; no Ministry official or great-aunt came looking for him.

He treated himself to a pair of slippers. Because he didn't want his stock of valid money go low again, he went westward two days later in search for another village and another post office. It was a bright and breezy day, and he walked most of the distance on the beach thus not having to wear shoes and not getting blisters. The main purpose of the trip was to change money, but the long ramble had a welcome side effect – he was nicely tired by the time he returned.

Then there came a number of days when he couldn't go farther than the baker's due to storm and rain. He sat around in his room all day with absolutely nothing to do. There was nothing there to distract him for a single moment. At night, he got hardly an hour of sleep. He tossed and turned, trying in vain to silence the countless memories that were screaming for attention. He wasn't even able to dwell on a particular topic – his mind jumped from horror to horror, from failure to failure and from one humiliation to the next.

The frightening sleeping disorder was the reason for buying a translucent raincoat – translucent was definitely weird, yet less embarrassing than orange or yellow – and it was also the reason for buying, after several days of hesitation, a pair of trainers. He had never worn shoes that weren't custom-made, and the ones in question didn't even come from _Turpin & Awl's Enticing Footwear_ but had been cobbled by some unknown Muggle instead.

However, they did their duty. Now, he roamed the hills whenever the weather was too wet and windy for roaming the beach.

Gradually, he settled into some sort of routine. He regularly ate breakfast at the baker's, and he had dinner at _The_ _Merry Fisherman_ as often as the weather permitted sitting on the terrace. Eating indoors was out of the question because the air in the pub was toxic with the fumes from the Muggles' ubiquitous smouldering sticks.

... 

He asked the bakery girls about cleaning clothes and learned – in the course of the better part of an hour – that laundering was a lengthy process involving lots of lukewarm water and a special type of liquid soap to be purchased at the shop next door.

He thought it advisable to start his experiments with socks and underpants rather than with his only pair of trousers. The result was surprisingly good, but he hadn't thought of how to get his laundry dry without using spells. It always seemed the same – a minor detail overlooked in planning spoiled his whole effort.

Since it was a fine, clear day, the idea occurred to him to expose the wet clothes to the sunshine, hoping the warm rays would do the trick.

No sooner had he draped the first pair of socks on the fence of the chicken run than a gust of wind blow one sock away. It fell down inside the run. The hens darted towards it, pecked at it, and threw it around in the mud.

The fence was too high to jump over it, so Draco rushed to the gate, yanked it open, and ran to retrieve his sock. The chickens sort of panicked. They shot away in all directions, flapping their wings and clucking madly. Ignoring them, he snatched his sock out of a muddy puddle. When he turned back, Mr Penwith was there, flailing a broomstick at a couple of hens that tried to escape through the open gate. Clucking and screeching, the birds broke into a frenzied run. Their furious wing-flapping proved futile – their wings were too feeble to carry them actually up into the air. Abruptly, they changed direction and shot straight towards Draco, causing him to jump aside. But they decided on an evasive manoeuvre as well, one that brought them exactly to where his feet were coming back down to the ground. It was a matter of a split second – he couldn't stop, they didn't stop, and one of the hens collided with his shin. It darted off after the other bird, its indignant clucking sounding somewhat choked.

"What d'you think you're doing?" the Muggle yelled. "I'm too old for that! Or are _you_ keen on chasing them back in?"

Draco – dripping wet laundry in one hand and mucky sock in the other – stammered an apology, simultaneously berating himself for stuttering in front of a Muggle and for his general lack of consideration.

The man actually listened, looking Draco up and down. He also spied the lone sock on the fence, and his initial anger lessened visibly.

"I see... forgot about the clothesline... my fault," he muttered. "I'm back in a jiffy. Just wait here."

He disappeared into his house and came back with a thin rope that had a number of plastic clothes pegs clamped to it. Muggles seemed exceedingly fond of the material, presumably because of its glaring colours.

He showed Draco two hooks, one protruding from the wall of the lodging house and the other one being attached to a tall, wooden pole next to the shrubbery, and gave instructions on how the rope was to be fastened to them.

"You do that. You put that clothes line up," he said. It was neither order nor plea but a simple statement. "It's much easier for you than for me, right? I'm not as young nowadays as I used to be. Thanks for obliging... And don't take the line down once your laundry is dry. There will be more lodgers soon and they'll need something to dry their bathing costumes."

... 

There were other lodgers soon. They usually arrived late in the afternoon or early in the evening. When Draco left for the baker's the next morning, most of them seemed still fast asleep, but they were gone by the time he returned.

By and large, they were no nuisance. They greeted Draco when they happened to meet him in the hall. Those trying to strike up further conversation he quickly discouraged by being unforthcoming. He only made the occasional exception for people who spoke with a broad, foreign accent and approached him for advice rather than for idle chatter. He was polite when he told them that he did not know the answers to their questions.

The best method to avoid unnecessary Muggle contact was spending time outdoors. There were Muggles on the beach, too, and their number increased as the high season drew nearer, but they were minding their own business, and Draco chose to ignore them in turn.

He walked for several hours every day. In the morning he went to the promontory to the west and in the afternoon eastward well beyond Maiden's Cliff, the place where he had once slept. The exercise did not only help him to get a few hours of genuine sleep every night but also made daytime more bearable. His memories were tamer while he moved in a steady pace. He could focus. Why this worked he wasn't sure but he intended to make use of it.

Whether he was roaming the hills or the beach, he assembled questions. Collecting questions seemed a reasonable first step. He was resolved to answer them later, as a second step, as truthfully as he would have done under the influence of Veritaserum.

However, even Veritaserum could only bring out truths you already knew. The potion was useless wherever you were unsure as to what was true and what wasn't. And doubts had grown within him during the last year like weeds in a neglected flowerbed.

... 

21. Pansy

Sometimes the Muggles hogged the bathroom. It didn't affect him as long as they were female lodgers because they had their separate bathroom. Besides, girls – or older women – always came in twos or threes, kept mostly to themselves, and didn't invite him to have a drink or "smoke" with them.

Getting up early usually gave him an advantage since most Muggle lodgers liked to sleep in. Unfortunately, the trick didn't always work. One day at half past six in the morning, Draco walked in on a bearded Muggle wearing nothing but a huge grin.

"Don't mind me," the man smirked. "I'm almost done here."

Draco was about to retreat without a word when the man threw the plastic hanging of the shower cubicle aside to collect a bottle of shampoo. A puff of warm, moist air wafted out.

"The water is _warm_?" Draco exclaimed before he could stop himself from betraying excitement.

"Yep," the Muggle said casually. "The fuse had blown. I told Mr Penwith, and he gave me a new one so I could replace it."

Draco nodded, trying to hide his bewilderment. He knew the meaning of all individual words including _yep_, but the presented combination thereof made no sense.

The man had gathered his stuff and treated Draco to another toothy grin.

"Have a nice day," he said and left, a bluish towel nonchalantly slung around his hips.

"And you," Draco answered distractedly.

Resolving not to worry unduly about "blown fuses", he shed his dressing gown and stepped into the shower cubicle. He luxuriated in the warm water for almost half an hour.

... 

His good mood didn't last long. The warm shower had brought back the memory of Daphne Greengrass climbing into a bathtub, which in turn led straight to the memory of Pansy giving him the push.

She had been so cold and indifferent when she had told him he should not consider her his girlfriend any longer. To him, her move had come completely out of the blue.

Had it been looming? Had there been signs he had overlooked because his focus had been on anticipating the Carrows' next iniquity?

Pansy had quickly got on the right side of the Carrows; he hadn't. There hadn't even been a point in trying – they had made up their minds about him on the Astronomy Tower.

Had their scorn driven a wedge between him and the girl?

He had been so sure of her. He had so believed she liked him.

He was sure he had liked her. The reason why was a bit hazy till today, though. There was nothing obvious to see – Pansy was neither exceptionally pretty nor exceptionally amiable. Quite to the contrary, she could be a real pain in the neck. And yet, he had liked being with her.

There had been that big, beaming smile when he had asked her to the Yule Ball. Her enthusiastic reaction had floored him, and he had altogether forgotten his next, well-rehearsed sentence. But that hadn't mattered – Pansy had been absolutely happy. She had rushed off to tell the other girls the good news.

Had that already been the first warning? If so, he hadn't seen it. He had just been relieved that asking her went so well. Most of the girls from his mother's list had already been invited by older boys, and his only other options would have been Millicent or a sixth-year girl he had never talked to before and who was four inches taller than him. He had decided on Pansy because he had thought her to be less silly and capricious than some other girls. She dressed neatly, didn't giggle the whole day, and her table manners were well up to standard. Most of all, she had shown interest in him after he had been attacked by that blasted Hippogriff.

Or so he had thought.

Had her affection for him only ever existed in his imagination?

He hadn't questioned her ready consent, not really. He had been convinced he deserved what she offered him.

It had been an icy morning in February, shortly after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, when she had allowed him for the first time to unbutton her blouse and to touch what was beneath. Exciting was too colourless a word to describe that moment. A thrill had shot from the tips of his fingers through his entire body, producing a physical warmth of hitherto unknown intensity and, needless to say, an instantaneous, irrepressible reaction of his membrum virile.

He had interpreted her behaviour as tentative eagerness. Had it all been a sham?

She used to caress his neck or shoulders. She had often combed his hair with her fingers – something he could endure for hours. Her tongue – sharp as a knife in a figurative sense – had been smooth and welcoming when they had kissed. He remembered how her hand had sneaked between his thighs, and that he had felt at once proud and embarrassed when she had found what she had been searching for.

Had she, already at the age of fifteen, been cunning and manipulative enough to provide exactly what would ignite his fantasies? He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. It had felt so good. So... promising.

He reminded himself that not wanting to believe unpleasant facts didn't change them in the least. They would remain just as ugly and undesirable as they were.

However, he could not tell what had been genuine on Pansy's part and what had been pretence. It was difficult enough to tell how much had been genuine on his part. He thought it had been a lot, although most of it seemed to elude verbalisation. How were physical urges and fuzzy emotions to be put into words?

Pansy hadn't talked about feelings, either. They had discussed homework, traduced Gryffindors – composing the Quidditch song had been real fun – or Hufflepuffs, and competed for witty remarks about Dumbass D'Ore and Minna McGoggleall. He had studiously avoided the trickier topics and been grateful that Pansy seemed to play along. Whenever he had felt unsure of himself – in other words, quite often – he had resorted to non-committal, decorous talk.

At the Yule Ball, he had complimented her about her dress. He had danced with her, thanking her afterwards with a minute bow for each dance. He had politely shown her back to her seat when she had wanted a break. He had fetched drinks and paid her more compliments. That night, he had executed all the formal gallantry his mother had instilled into him. Pansy had been impressed and had told him so. He had felt flattered, and she had revelled in the other girls' envy.

That night, he had thought he had come near the level of perfection he had always craved. The Yule night of 1994 had stood out as a beacon for a long time afterwards.

The event itself had been over all too soon, but it had let to more.

Both his and her parents had been informed about their relationship and had approved of it in a general way. Of course, his mother – telling his father had been the most unthinkable thing in the world – had _not_ known about him indulging in unchaste activities with Pansy. Had Mrs Parkinson heard of such details? Had she encouraged or even instructed her daughter to play on his hopes?

Three or four years ago, Mrs Parkinson might have considered him a good catch for her daughter. There had been the wealth and the immaculate bloodline, the big manor and the high repute. He had always known that such things mattered a great deal, but he hadn't been aware before Great-aunt Lucrecia had told him so that they were the _only_ things that mattered when it came to selecting a spouse. By now, all of his family's wealth was gone, but the reputation had become tarnished long ago. The Carrows had made sure that nobody failed to notice the Malfoys' fall from grace. So, Mrs Parkinson might have had advised her daughter to back off. And Pansy, because all she had ever been interested in had been showing him off, had dropped him once he had outlived his usefulness.

But that was all speculation. He had no proof.

Maybe the question why Pansy had left him wasn't the most important one on his list, but it was knotty all the same.

Questions starting with why or how were difficult as a rule, much more difficult than those beginning with who, where, or when.

... 

22. The Barbecue Party

He returned late, still dwelling on his failed relationship with Pansy. The open place between the lodging house, Mr Penwith's and the hen house was crowded with strangers. Draco counted five girls and eight young men gathered round a crude, but large charcoal grill. Next to it, Mr Penwith was seated on a makeshift contraption that loosely resembled a chair. Several people busied themselves with roasting sausages and chops.

Some rugs were spread out on the ground; a nearby table was laden with flat loaves, diverse vegetables, and cardboard boxes. A bit further off, between the chicken run and the shrubbery, three small tents had been set up.

Draco hadn't stopped to survey the scene; he had merely slowed in his pace. Yet, before he had reached the door, two of the girls approached him and suggested in awfully broken English that he should join their party. He had already eaten a generous serving of fish pie at _The_ _Merry Fisherman_, so the promises of good and plentiful food didn't much appeal to him. But the prospect of a little diversion was tempting.

He sat down on one of the rugs; someone handed him a plastic cup filled with a dubious, pinkish liquid. He took a tiny sip. The stuff tasted strongly of sugar and alcohol, and he decided not to drink it. He twiddled the little cup in his fingers until the cook forced a barbecued sausage on him. He accepted the sausage and put the cup aside, taking care it toppled over when no-one was looking.

He listened to the conversation that took place around him. Apparently, the assembled people – the girls came from somewhere in Eastern Europe and the men from either Belgium or Manchester – were trying to get acquainted with each other. The conversation revolved around their various home countries, jobs, and plans for the future. When somebody asked him, he said that he was from Wiltshire, had left school some weeks ago, and was now trying to make up his mind as to what he would do with the rest of his life. Although there were no actual lies in his answer, it concealed the truth nicely. The audience was pleased, though, and proceeded to interview a skinny, blonde girl.

The night wore on. At some point, he was given another cup of pink beverage, and because the salty sausage had made him thirsty, he drank. He felt none the worse for it, except perhaps a little drowsy. He even agreed to two or three refills.

One of the Belgians brought out a guitar. He played and sang, and Draco silently conceded that the man was good at it. Sometimes others joined in for a few repeated lyrics, or they hummed along.

Draco didn't. He was sure he had heard none of the songs before. They were Muggle songs, after all. Besides, he couldn't sing. He hadn't been taught; his parents had considered singing a useless skill.

On the other hand, his mother had insisted that he took dancing lessons. At eight or nine years old, he had started to learn the appropriate steps for various traditional tunes like minuet, waltz, wiz-step, slow polka, and the Magic Whirl. He had danced with Pansy, but only that one night. There had never again been an opportunity for it...

While his mind had been wandering, the space between him and the slim, blonde girl had somehow vanished. He moved as few inches to the side to bring some distance back between them. In no time at all, she had come close again. Puzzled, he edged further away, but she followed. All of a sudden, her head touched his upper arm. He thought for a moment she had fallen asleep. Then he felt her hand stroking his thigh.

He pulled away so abruptly that he caused her to slam face-first onto the rug. He was on his feet before she had struggled back into a sitting position. The sudden commotion drew the crowd's attention; the musician stopped playing.

The girl said something in her language, and promptly, anger flared up on the other girls' faces.

He felt nauseous.

"I did nothing to-" he broke off; everything was spinning around him. Staggering, he made for the bathroom.

He reached the washbasin in the nick of time.

He knew effing well the sickness wasn't due to a sassy Muggle touching him. He had thrown up just as violently after Zabini and he had emptied the bottle of firewhiskey they had bought at _The_ _Hog's Head_ and smuggled in. He had felt shit for the entire next day.

But he wanted to blame her. The filthy Muggle slut, how dare she!

He was rinsing his mouth with water from the tap when the door opened. This blasted door having no lock became more unbearable with each day... There was no-one more inept than the bunch of brainless Muggles who had knock together this house!

"Get out," he snapped.

"Are you all right?" the intruder asked.

Draco splashed cool water into his face.

"Do I look all right?" he muttered.

"No, not really," the intruder observed. "There is more alcohol in these ready-made mix drinks than anyone suspects. How many did you have?"

"Three," Draco said. "Four."

"Then there's no serious danger; you'll survive. But you had better go to bed now."

Draco slowly straightened up to face the man. The guy looked somewhat sympathetic.

"The girls are furious. I don't know what that wicked little skirt told them," the man said, grimacing. "But the blokes from Brussels watched what actually happened. Sometimes I wonder how it is that men are expected to take no for an answer, whereas women can do as they please and get away with it."

Draco made no reply. The nausea hadn't yet entirely abated.

"I guess it's probably feminism taking over after five millennia of patriarchy," the man grinned. "Good night."

... 

Draco woke, his heart beating hard and fast, from a vivid dream. It hadn't been one of his usual nightmares. In fact, it had been as different from those as it could possibly be.

Once he had rather enjoyed having such dreams. They had become fewer and fewer until they had stopped altogether several months ago.

They used to be about Pansy. This night's one had been about her too – in a sense.

He had met the cheeky girl from last night on the beach. She had worn the standard beach attire of Muggle women – a bra and tiny knickers in loud colours. He had stood close to her, much too close. Skin had touched skin. There had been music, he had taken her hand into his and had placed the other one on her shoulder, her _naked_ shoulder. They had danced, the sand under his feet had been smooth and warm, his hand had slipped ever so slightly downwards, the face of the stranger had merged into Pansy's, he had pulled her closer against his bare belly and had bent down to kiss her, and a rain had come down as hot as water in a shower...

Well, the rain had come down precisely in one place. In former times a flick of his wand would have been enough to clear away the mess. He wasn't sure what to do here and now. He rather did not want anybody walking in on him while he did this sort of laundry. Unfortunately, the place was packed with people; he could hear them wander into the house, or out of it, every other five minutes. Eight men – they probably had to queue up for the bathroom.

He lay awake, the afterglow of his dream long gone.

Pansy had left him.

Maybe the break-up was his fault after all. He knew he had neglected her, spending every minute he could spare on repairing the old Vanishing Cabinet. Of course, he had explained to her how important his mission was and how it would boost his position once it was completed. He had thought she understood. And maybe she had. Maybe she had understood a lot better than he had at that point of time.

In a sense, he had lied to Pansy the same way he had lied to everyone else, himself included. Perhaps he had fooled her in the beginning, but probably not for too long. She might very quickly have become able to see right behind his facade. And he didn't think that she had particularly liked what she had spotted there.

... 

He waited until all lodgers had left. It was an hour to noon when he went down to the bathroom to wash the evidence of his dream out of his pyjamas. While he let them soak in lukewarm water, he studied his thin, unshaven face in the mirror.

He was such a loser.

to be continued... 

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	8. Part 08

Author's note

I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I will continue this story but I won't make any promises as to when the next update will be because real life with its various demands might get into the way again.

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23. Crayons

Mr Penwith was positively joyous every time Draco paid the rent for another fortnight. Once, the old man asked Draco to either leave the key with him for the rest of the day or to stay in because the cleaning lady was bound to come.

Draco opted for waiting around. He didn't want anybody to go into his room in his absence. All his money – even if most banknotes were still old ones – was there. The notes were stored in various plastic bags beneath a layer of underwear and shirts at the bottom of the locker. He hoped that this was safer than carrying them around day-in, day-out.

... 

The cleaning lady brought a _machine_ with her. It rolled around on three wheels and had a long proboscis with a wide mouth that served to suck the cobwebs off the walls and the dirt off the floor even in the remotest corners. Draco appreciated the objective – the room had undoubtedly gone dirty in the weeks since his arrival – but the noise that the little apparatus emitted was infernal. The cleaning lady seemed to feel the same; she kicked the thing with her foot, and it fell silent with a drawn-out sigh.

However, before Draco, precariously perched on the windowsill, found time to relax, she went about stripping his bed of the linen. His protests fell on deaf ears. She left, the linen carelessly draped over her shoulder and the noise machine in tow. She was back a minute later to thrust wordlessly a stack of fresh linen into Draco's arms.

It took him a while to figure out how to put his bed back into working order, and his indignation about being made to do house-elves' work certainly didn't help.

But eventually, he managed.

... 

It was already afternoon when he left the house that day. It was also unusually hot. A long walk did therefore not seem a good idea. He decided to seek out a shadowy place by the cliffs where he could spend the hottest hours and to have a stroll later, when the sun would be less high in the sky.

He had reached the large boulders that littered the beach near the cliffs when the wind blew something white at him. His Seeker's instinct simply taking over, he caught it in midair.

It was a sheet of paper with clumsily sketched boats on it.

Two small children emerged from behind a boulder and asked to have their picture back. Completely transfixed, he stared down at them. Fighting the urge to just prise their little fingers open and take away what they were holding, he stood rooted to the spot until the children's mother appeared. She snatched the paper out of his unresisting hand and, swearing like a riled dragon wrestler, shooed him away.

However, the crude threats she was shouting after him weren't what propelled him forwards. A yearning had overcome him, a crazy yearning that got more intense by the second. Halfway back to Trethwyn, he broke into a run. He left the beach and, heat forgotten, sped down the lane towards the village. He needed to yield to this sudden longing, and he needed to do it soon, or else he would burst.

When he entered the shop, he was drenched in sweat and totally out of breath. But the shop owner was as friendly and helpful as ever. Among all the weird plastic stuff – _felt-tip pens, gel writer pens, ballpoint pens_ Draco read with growing impatience on the boxes – she found a package of genuine, wooden crayons. The paper she selected for him was thick, white and absolutely perfect for sketches.

Without waiting for her to return the change, he rushed outside and sat down on the edge of an oversized flowerpot that happened to stand there. The white paper was screaming at him to be covered in colourful sketches, and he hastened to sketch what he saw – the well in the middle of the village square, the bench next to it, the uneven houses on the opposite side, the green leaves of the young, lone chestnut tree in the dazzling sun, nasturtiums and bougainvillea plants growing out of window boxes, painted shutters, grey slate, chalked walls, hewn flint, shop signs, advertisements, dark ropes that hung between tall posts or between posts and houses, a cream-coloured bowl sitting on a roof... He was amazed how many details had escaped him so far.

And he couldn't stop. He simply couldn't stop sketching.

He didn't stop until he needed a sharpener.

He went back into the shop to buy one. He also bought two more sketchpads. Then he sat down again on the flowerpot and resumed sketching.

The crayons felt good in his hand. He was surprised how well his fingers remembered even though it had been seven years since they had last held a crayon. Crayons had never found a niche in his Hogwarts trunk. His parents had wanted him to apply himself rather than to waste time on idle pursuits.

By and by, he had learned to use his quill for sketching. He had sketched a lot but had burned most of the pictures in the fireplace of the Slytherin common room because he couldn't risk anyone finding them. The few ones that had not ended up in the flames he had hidden in his Herbology folder. Professor Sprout had not expected her students to take notes or to keep folders and, consequently, had never checked. His father had considered Herbology hardly worth mentioning and had not once enquired after it as he had done with other subjects, Potions or Charms for example. Besides, Draco had always got top marks in Herbology. Maybe that had made questions even more unnecessary in his father's opinion.

... 

Later, he went down to the beach. There was myriad of hitherto unnoticed details to be seen there as well: seashells and marram, glittering pebbles, beetles and little bits of wood and seaweed that had been washed to the shore.

The suspicion crept over him that he had not wanted to see. He had ignored the sea birds and the white crests on the waves to the same extent as he had ignored the Muggles milling around. He wasn't too sure why. Here he went again – he had just happened on another question starting with why.

He knew why he ignored Muggles – he didn't wish to interact with them more than absolutely necessary. But why hadn't he seen the thicket of common sea-buckthorn? Well, he supposed that he _had_ _seen_ it, but he hadn't _consciously perceived_ it.

It was very odd.

There was nothing to be said against sea-buckthorn. It grew in poor soil or in places where it was exposed to the elements – full sun, salty air, strong winds – like here. It was a useful, resilient plant that didn't need any tending. Various parts of seabuckthorn went into nearly twenty different potions.

Maybe the reason why lay here – thinking about potions led inevitably to thinking about Snape or Slughorn.

Slughorn was a self-righteous, fat, old shirker who had treated him as if he were an irrelevant speck of dirt. Draco had soon realised that Slughorn wasn't the type of man he could rely on if push came to shove. Slughorn was probably the type of man nobody could rely on except Slughorn himself. However, Horace Slughorn had been a mere nuisance to him; he hadn't been dangerous.

Snape was an entirely different matter. Draco had never been able to figure Snape out. While other people hid behind facades, Snape was walled in by facade upon facade.

He wondered what had become of his former house teacher.

Had the Aurors questioned him about Snape?

What did he know about Severus Snape apart from the fact that he mustn't be trusted? Even Dumbledore had fallen for the two-faced mole. Draco couldn't believe till today what he had seen with his very eyes – how could anyone commit murder in such cold blood?

Ever since that night, Snape had pretended Draco didn't exist. He had never again talked to him in private, not once, not for a single sentence. Draco supposed that this had been his former teacher's way to make him feel his worthlessness.

When Snape had made Blaise Zabini Head Boy, Draco hadn't been surprised in the least.

... 

24. A Potion Gone Wrong

He spent much of his time doing sketches – he sketched the hills, the hedges, the little copses, the promontory to the west, the beach and the sea dotted with small Muggle boats.

_Boats_ were perhaps an exaggeration – they had sails, yes, but they were designed for only one person, and that person had to stand on rather than to sit in the boat. The Muggles seemed to consider riding these would-be boats nevertheless a worthwhile occupation and engaged in it a lot. Bad weather didn't bother them even though they lost balance more often than not and plunged into the water. Actually, they looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Draco reluctantly conceded that riding such boats might be something very similar to riding a broomstick just for fun.

He also noticed that Muggles could swim. Already their children possessed that skill.

Was he less talented than the average Muggle brat? He shouldn't think so.

He watched people swimming. They used a variety of styles. They preferred certain areas of water to others, and, apparently, swimmers had also to mind the tides.

Then, one night when the crescent moon was bright, the water calm and the air balmy despite the late hour, he ventured into the sea and imitated the arm and leg movements he had seen. Although he swam slowly and unsteadily at first, he soon got the hang of it.

The idea of learning to swim had never occurred to him throughout his childhood. The deep pond at the Goyles' estate was as Grindylow-infested as the Hogwarts Lake. Why would anyone go in there, and for fun no less?

When he had seen the champions swim, he had thought they – along with the hostages – had received special training. The younger of the French girls had quite obviously been rubbish at swimming, and Potter and the Weasley prat had dragged her to the shore.

Draco didn't know whether anyone else could swim. Such a topic had never come up in the Slytherin common room. Why bother if you could float above the water or walk on it with the help of simple spells, if you could Apparate to the other bank of a river or cross a lake on broomstick?

If you could.

He was pretty sure he hadn't yet comprehended his punishment in its entirety. He discovered new facets every time he came across another problem he had to solve without magic. But doing it, managing something without magic – like laundering his shirts or teaching himself how to swim – gave him the feeling of cheating those who had thought up such punishment for him a tiny little bit out of their triumph.

Besides, swimming skills came in handy. Spending his time crayoning required foregoing the long, time-consuming walks. But he needed a certain amount of exercise because physical exhaustion was still the best substitute for a Sleeping Draught.

... 

The weather held; cold or stormy days were few and far between. There was always a blustery wind, but he secured the sheets of paper with stones and clothes pegs against flying off. He had his favourite places where he sat and did his sketches – places where he had a fine view of the beach, the village or the hills.

Most of his pictures showed nothing but landscape, sun-lit, wind-blown and wide. Some things, sunsets for instance, were harder to sketch than others because instead of the ninety-six crayons he had once owned he had only twenty-four to create all the different hues.

Things were fine as long as he stuck to landscape and, perhaps, birds and sheep. As soon as he attempted to draw people, he somehow lost control over the crayon in his hand. As if of its own accord, it generated big, burly men, and their faces became invariably that of Vincent Crabbe. The crests on the waves turned yellow and then orange. They rose higher and higher until they sprouted ugly heads. He never stopped, though, when he realised he was sketching things that weren't there. Those flames _had_ _been_ _real_ one horrible night not so long ago. The images were amassed in his head, and they were fighting to get out. So, he let them.

He always felt a bit drained afterwards but also strangely sober. For a little while, shame gave way to a blurry sadness. The effect was similar to that of crying.

Crying dulled pain, or fear, or humiliation, if only for a fleeting moment. He wished he could cry again, but for some reason, he had lost the ability. No tears would come no matter how lost or wretched he felt. All the more welcome was the transient change brought about by sketching Crabbe.

Crabbe...

Vincent Crabbe was no more.

Dying had always been a looming prospect in the course of the past two years, but that night in the Room of Requirement, death had been only seconds away. And Crabbe had never made it out of the roaring inferno.

Once upon a time, they had been close. Sort of, at least.

Before his life had changed beyond recognition, Draco had steered Crabbe through term after term. Learning had been tough work for Crabbe. There had hardly been a topic that had not been slightly beyond his grasp. Draco had usually done his homework twice – he had written a comprehensive version that he would hand in himself and then a shorter, simplified one for Crabbe to copy down. He had dedicated countless hours to rehearsing the most basic facts of their major subjects with Crabbe in order to make sure the numskull passed his O.W.L.s, if only just so.

Shortly before O.W.L.s, Snape had provided an opportunity for Slytherin students to get some last minute training in potion making. Everybody had been to work on his or her own as it would be during the exam. Draco, however, had monitored Crabbe's work closely. He had given him hints by nodding or shaking his head since verbal conversation hadn't been allowed. Everything had gone just fine until Crabbe had added the last ingredient. Suddenly, the potion had started fizzing. All Draco had been able to do was shouting at Crabbe to dive for cover. Crabbe had been too slow, though, in both the literary and the figurative sense. The hot liquid had erupted from the cauldron and drenched him from tip to toe.

The overall damage hadn't been too serious – the potion itself had been a truly harmless one, and Madam Pomfrey had healed the petty burns in no time at all. Yet, something in the story irked Draco. So close to the exams, Crabbe could have done with a little encouragement, and a flawlessly done potion would have boosted his confidence. Instead, he had suffered injury and, needless to say, ridicule.

Reminding himself of his vow to adhere to the truth, Draco had to admit that he had not thought this way two years ago. He had joined the laughter without thinking twice. He hadn't felt bad for Crabbe. Quite the opposite had been true. Laughing at Crabbe had somewhat relieved the anger caused by a remark Snape had made. The teacher had blamed Draco for the mishap. Of course, he hadn't done so openly. While everybody's eyes had been on Crabbe, Goyle and Nott leaving for the hospital wing, he had bent down a little and whispered into Draco's ear, "That was _your_ fault, actually."

The incident should have been a warning Draco realised now, but he had been blind.

He had not wondered how it was that Snape knew Draco had overlooked a slip-up in Crabbe's work. He had not concluded that Snape, obviously knowing about the impending debacle, could have interfered before it was too late. Instead, he had been solely focussed on figuring out what had gone wrong with the potion. It had taken him all afternoon, a great deal of the night and the better part of the next day before he had spotted the mistake: Crabbe had made it when he had put in the dried beetroot extract – the first ingredient to go into the cauldron after the water. Instead of clockwise, he had stirred three times anticlockwise, and Draco, standing opposite from him, had failed to notice that error. So, essentially, Crabbe's potion had been ruined right from the start despite it showing all the correct colours and consistencies afterwards. The disaster in the end was the result of a minor mistake made at the beginning.

The story could well serve as a metaphor Draco thought. He hadn't made a botch of a potion; he had made a botch of his life. Was there a point back in time when he had stirred anticlockwise?

... 

25. Sons to the Power of Seven

August came and went.

There was little change. The cleaning lady made another appearance and so did Ada, his mother's old tawny owl.

In essence, his mother's letter told him that the Bulstrodes were currently not interested in associating themselves in any possible way with the name of Malfoy, and if Araminta was the reason for his prolonged absence, he should return home immediately.

His reply was as short as the previous one and consisted mainly of the plea to be given some more time to recover.

In his heart of hearts, he knew that he wasn't any nearer to recovery than he had been two months ago. He was perhaps a bit better physically. The swimming did him well. It seemed to tone up his muscles more than Quidditch practise ever had. Mentally, however, he hadn't made much progress. The acute panic had subsided, but he was still kind of paralysed by the sheer enormity of what had happened.

He hadn't come any further than pondering a few sub-problems because he couldn't bring himself to even _glance_ at the big picture. It was too scary. Too many pieces had slid out of place. The fundamental values he had been taught threatened to give way under the onslaught of adverse facts, and defending them appeared to be every bit as hopeless as abandoning them seemed wrong.

There were only questions and no answer anywhere in sight. But while he found no answers, he did find an activity that took his mind off the nagging questions and thus, gave it time to relax. Once discovered, he made excessive use of it. Sitting on some rickety bench along the Coast Path or on a flat boulder on the beach and sketching pastoral landscapes, he slipped into daydreams and fantasised about days in a faraway future or in different worlds where he was a man of distinction and repute, worlds and times where people would greet him in the streets as, by the way, some of the native Muggles did by now. Once he had heard somebody in the pub refer to him as _the young artist_; he couldn't help wondering what the Muggles saw in him.

The dreams weren't coherent stories. He simply replayed short, unconnected and, for the most part, downright soppy episodes in his mind. His favourite scene was a Great-Hall-at-Hogwarts setting where neatly dressed, white-blonde students outnumbered the blasted redheads ten to one.

Why couldn't he have six siblings, who would each have seven children in turn? Two such generations and there would be strength in numbers, if not anywhere else. Of course, the Malfoy clan was still rich in his dream scenarios – they could provide when the Slytherin quarters grew too small to accommodate all their offspring. He imagined McGonagall's sour face when she was forced to accept his money in order to keep her school running. He imagined her face – and that of any other teacher who had never liked him – when they were met with a white-blonde child in every class they taught.

He imagined himself standing on platform nine and three quarters, seeing his older children off while he was surrounded by toddlers and held his youngest daughter – a baby of two or three months – in his arms. And he pictured McGonagall offering him grudgingly her congratulations and asking him in a voice full of despair, _I believe she is number twenty-two, Mr Malfoy?_ And he would relish his answer, _My sincere apologies for correcting you, professor: Gemma is our twenty-fourth child_. And under his breath, he would add, _And there will be a Malfoy in every year for the rest of your miserable reign at Hogwarts..._

He did know the dreams were ridiculous. But he dwelled on them nevertheless. They allowed him to believe that one day in a hazy, distant future, things would be fine, that he would live again. He didn't think he lived right now. He merely existed, waiting for his bewildered mind to catch up with reality.

He was whole-heartedly grateful for the respite that his grandfather's money bought him. For once, he didn't feel the pressure of upholding time-honoured standards, of preserving a reputation, of bringing honour to a name – in short, of living up to all sorts of expectations. He didn't have to live up to anything, really. No-one reminded him to school his face into an expression of indifference at all times, no-one told him off when he was in his shirtsleeves for dinner. The Muggles seemed perfectly fine with him lazing around in their village. They acted as if he actually belonged here. That was odd, but it was also soothing in a way.

His grandfather's forethought combined with the Muggles' unwitting acquiescence granted him the luxury of sitting quietly by himself – on the beach, or a random bench, or the terrace of the Muggle pub – and indulging in blissful fantasies.

His dreamt-up worlds held neither Aurors nor Death Eaters. No past existed there, and neither did guilt. Those worlds floated on sunbeams like on unblemished magic. Gentle summer rains caressed his dreamlands and the happy children that lived therein.

One day he would have children, many children.

He wasn't sure whether the scores of children all around, despite them being Muggles, triggered the dreams. The real-life shouting and laughing on the beach echoed through his fantasies. He imagined himself watching his own children playing in the sand or paddling in the sea and shrieking when the spray of a larger wave hit them. He imagined them rushing towards him and throwing themselves into his arms. He imagined teaching his children how to swim. Musingly, he made a promise to his unborn children that he would not become impatient if they didn't perform flawlessly at the very first go.

His mind slipped into the dreams like his body slipped into the water after sundown. He fantasised about walking into the sea now and coming back to the shore twenty-five years later. He fantasised about a frail, withered witch called Minna McGoggleall gawking scandalised at him and his appearance. He, giving in to the fact that his underpants would slip down anyway as soon as they became wet, emulated the small number of holidaying Muggles who preferred a special stretch of white sand that was separated from the main beach by fallen rock on one side, and obstructed by several groynes on the other. Muggles were strange folk by definition, and their bathing habits were just another proof thereof – when they went for a swim at that little, secluded place, they did so in puris naturalibus. It seemed indeed to be an officially approved custom because the policemen patrolling the beach regularly chased off delinquents who set up tents there or who lit illegal campfires, but they never bothered the nude swimmers.

Draco nonetheless waited until late in the evening before he climbed down the narrow, meandering trail that branched off the Coast Path just beyond the promontory. Usually, most Muggles had left by that time, and he was careful to keep a safe distance to the few remaining ones. They, in turn, ignored him almost completely.

He was glad nobody interfered with his late swimming because he really liked the sensation of cool water washing over his bare skin.

... 

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	9. Part 09

26. Relapse

On the first day of September, he went to a large holiday resort some twelve or fifteen miles to the west. He found several post offices there as well as branch offices of sundry Muggle bank houses. In just one day, he had more old pound notes exchanged for valid money than in all the weeks before.

He was so gloriously tired by the time he returned to his lodgings, he was sure he would sleep like a baby. However, the moment he opened the window to let some fresh air into his tiny room, Ada whizzed past him. The owl alighted on the headboard and stuck her leg out.

... 

The small parcel Ada had brought contained a piece of parchment bearing the Malfoy crest and a short note from his mother informing him of a recent ruling of the Wizengamot: prisoners were henceforth allowed to receive letters from close relatives on a few, select occasions. She mentioned strict regulations, but specified only the one about children being permitted to send birthday greetings to an imprisoned parent.

Draco reached for the empty parchment. He had only hours to compose a letter. His father's birthday was tomorrow.

What should he write?

What _could_ he write? He had no doubt the letter would be read by the guards. So, he had better avoid mentioning his current whereabouts.

Would it be safe to write that he was doing fine – moderately fine at any rate – lest his father worry about him? Or would the snooping clerks perhaps react with, "What, Malfoy is doing fine? That can't be tolerated! Let's make sure that this changes!"

All at once, he was back in the middle of _things_ _happening_. The feeling of being powerless, of having no control over his life was back, and it was as intense as ever.

He carefully placed the parchment upon his pillow. He got up and, slightly trembling, walked over to the window. The first stars glittered in the sky.

Why was he such a failure?

Why couldn't he cope?

Wasn't he so much better off than his father, who was imprisoned in a horrible place infested with vile, life-sucking creatures?

What did Azkaban do to its victims? The rumours said it damaged both their mental and physical health. Were those just rumours? Or did the foul place indeed shatter the inmates' self-esteem and weaken their will to live? Did it, in the long run, break their minds?

Draco had seen people who had been there for a long time, his uncles for instance, and Aunt Bellatrix. She was undeniably twisted. He couldn't tell, though, whether Azkaban had turned her into a psychopath, or whether she had been that way all along. Perhaps Dementors could not break the mind of people who were already insane. Uncle Rabastan, Uncle Rodolphus, Dolohov, Mr Rookwood – they all had a slight trait of madness about them. It was in their eyes, a strange glint that had made Draco's hair stand on end every time he had witnessed it.

His father hadn't been downright insane when he had returned after a year of imprisonment, yet he had been changed. The differences had been subtle, and Mother had steadfastly maintained that they were only temporary. But there had been no breather for his father, no time to recover.

Life had rapidly gone downhill, and Draco hadn't been able to do anything about it. He had wasted the one chance he had had. Although, in retrospect, he doubted that killing Dumbledore would have done him or his family any good. He had suffered derision and ridicule from his "fellow" Death Eaters for his failing, but success would have earned him their resentment, their envy, and a hatred-fuelled rivalry. Failing had rendered him insignificant. It had made him the target of cruel jokes, but success would have turned him into someone the others had to get rid off in order to ascend in the hierarchy. Some might have been content with inventing slander and cooking up intrigue, but sooner or later, some would have resorted to direct assault. So, in a sense, managing to kill Dumbledore would have elevated him to a position where he was forced to repeat the act of killing, if only to defend his own life. The odds would have been against him all the same because Aunt Bellatrix could never have borne the thought of him outshining her in any respect, and he wouldn't have survived an open confrontation with her, not even if his mother had thrown herself bodily into the fight.

Besides, the other side had won. Murdering their venerated leader would have landed him in Azkaban for the rest of his life.

He had gone free for some reason, but his father...

He had fearfully tiptoed around _that_ thought for the past four months: He was free, _but_ _his_ _father_ _was_ _in_ _prison_.

He leaned against the window frame and breathed in the scented night air.

Boxwood and thyme grew there amidst the shrubbery. The tangle of plants was, in point of fact, a neglected garden. He had realised that when he had done sketches and, therefore, taken a closer look. There were horseradishes, rose hips, sage...

It took all the willpower he could muster to step away from the window, to turn his back to it, to wrench his thoughts off the comfy topic, and to force them back to the painful one – _he_ _had_ _done_ _nothing_ to save his father from going back to Azkaban.

On the contrary, he had probably betrayed him even further.

It didn't help much to remind himself that the situation his father was in now had nothing to do with what he, Draco, might have told the Aurors after he had downed the Truth Serum. His father was serving a sentence for burgling the Ministry two years ago, and he had to serve it twice as punishment for escaping from prison.

But would helping not have been the duty of a faithful son?

He was sure his father would see things that way. One day, he would have to answer to him for his actions, or rather, for the complete lack of any action whatsoever. Absolutely not knowing what to do had never been an excuse in his father's eyes.

Draco recalled the first time he had severely disappointed his father, or, at any rate, the first instance he was aware of. His shame had been so intense, the event had etched itself into his memory: At a very young age, he hadn't been able to pronounce his grandfather's given name. So, he had once said _Abbasass_ when there had been guests present. The strangers had laughed out loud. As if this had not been mortifying enough, his father had berated him until Draco's mother had intervened. Although his father had fallen quiet, Draco had felt the embarrassment burning in his cheeks. The heat had flared up again as often as he had dared to glance at his father's face that evening.

He had always wanted to do his father proud.

All of a sudden, he felt the urge to kick something; the pent-up frustration needed an outlet. But there was nothing kickable within reach.

He flung the door open and bolted down the ladder-like stairs, stumbling at the end and colliding with somebody in the dimly lit hall.

"Mind to look where you're going?" he yelled out, pushing past. "Stupid Muggle oaf!"

He stormed out of the house with angry shouts following him. The voice sounded like a girl's. He didn't listen.

He rushed into the night, only realising where he was heading when he had already reached the beach.

He threw his clothes down and dived into the sea.

... 

27. Cruel Irony

He didn't want to.

He didn't want to think about all these things.

He didn't want to remember.

He didn't want to remember the dinner party when he had said _Abbasass_. He didn't want to remember the afternoon at the Ministry when he had said Merlin knew what.

He kicked the water with all his might.

But no matter how hard he kicked and pushed, the water would still engulf him like, figuratively, his memories engulfed him regardless of his efforts to push them away.

There was no avoiding it. All these memories of failure and fiasco, of errors and fear, of betrayal and shattered hopes were part of him.

But he wished they weren't.

All this incompetence, all this weakness and inadequacy was, essentially, him.

But he wished it wasn't.

He switched to the swimming mode he knew to be the most exhaustive one. You had to move your legs like a fishtail and to raise both arms out of the water simultaneously, pulling the whole upper part of your body along. He couldn't keep this up for longer than a minute before his strength failed him. He rested for long enough to catch his breath, and then he started again. After that, he did a third round. And then, a fourth one.

By the time he trudged back to dry land, he was shaking with cold and fatigue. He could only just keep his teeth from chattering, but the haunting memories were blissfully dulled.

There were people on the beach. In the darkness, he first thought they were a trysting couple. When he came nearer, though, he saw that they both were men in their thirties.

He had no choice but to walk up to them because they lurked exactly where he had dropped his clothes.

They gave him outrageously curious stares. Such behaviour seemed highly inappropriate even for Muggles. Pretending not to notice the sodding gits, Draco struggled to pull his trousers up his wet legs. Of course, he had no towel to dry himself with since he wasn't on a carefully planned outing, but had got here in a frenzied dash.

"You had better go to the Naturists' Club for that," one of the strangers suddenly said.

"And you had better mind your own business," Draco rejoined.

He flung his vest and shirt over his shoulder, grabbed his other stuff, and walked away from the giggling idiots. They actually giggled! Then again, Muggles did behave in crazy ways every so often. He therefore told himself that he shouldn't worry too much about the encounter.

On the contrary, he felt strangely sober. He dressed himself properly when he was halfway between the two Muggle idiots and the village. Since he was still very cold, he ran all the way back to his lodgings.

... 

The door to his room stood wide open. He had left it that way he realised with a jolt. He hastened to check on the money. It was where it belonged – either in the plastic bags beneath the clothes or still in the rucksack.

Nothing in the room seemed touched. The sole exception was the parchment. It lay no longer on the pillow, but in the middle of the bed. Ada sat next to it, giving him reproachful looks.

"Yes, I know," he sighed.

He didn't want to.

He didn't want to write this letter. There was nothing he had to say. All he had were an endless catalogue of questions, doubts, and a heavily distorted picture that showed his life as a succession of misfortunes and debacles. No more than the hundredth part of all this would fit on a single sheet of parchment. Above all, any such listing would only delight the nosy guards. His father would drop it in disgust.

He selected a dark green crayon and, pressing the parchment against the locker, wrote,

"_Father_,  
_I_ _apologise_ _for_ _being_ _such_ _a_ _disappointment_ _to_ _you_.  
_Draco_"

He rolled the parchment up without giving his writing another glance. There was something amiss here, most definitely. He couldn't wrap the problem up in words, though, and that made him even more uneasy. For a few seconds, he toyed with the idea of not sending the letter at all but a Fiendfyre sketch in its stead and felt promptly shocked at how such a thought could ever occur to him.

He fastened the parchment to the owl's leg, fumbling with haste. He had to get rid of this letter; he had to get over with this upsetting task.

Ada flew off into the starry sky, but his gloomy mood remained.

He wouldn't see his father for a very long time...

He stood by the window, breathing in the cool night air and the scents from the forgotten garden below.

Had he ever had the means to help his father to go free? He could have told the Aurors of his own free will what he most likely had told them anyway under the influence of Veritaserum: how Lucius Malfoy had been humiliated by the monster, how he had been forced to surrender his wand, and how he had almost been killed by his sister-in-law. But all these things had happened afterwards, after the attempted theft and the breakout. Later mishaps could not serve to rectify former deeds.

Besides, the only effect of such details being known would be – or, in all probability, was going to be – a lesser chance for his father and the family in general to regain any sort of reputation. Hoping for a revision of an already pronounced verdict was futile. The Wizengamot would never consider taking a sentence back. They wouldn't do so even if there was overwhelming new evidence to prove a man's innocence. The name of Sirius Black had not been cleared even though the truth about Wormtail had been revealed.

Twelve years in Azkaban, served for nothing...

His father had still to serve more than six, almost seven years. Maybe Azkaban couldn't break people who were strong, people like Sirius Black, like the Lestrange brothers, like Mr Rookwood or Antonin Dolohov.

But his father wasn't strong. It had been a shock to realise that. However, it had been one shock among many. It didn't stick out very prominently.

He had always wanted to be like his father. This had been both his topmost goal and his deepest desire. He had done everything for it. He had diligently pretended whenever he couldn't achieve the real thing. Or so he had thought. In truth, the act of pretending had been a more accurate imitation of his father than he had realised at the time. Like his father, he had hidden his shortcomings behind a meticulously maintained facade. And like with his father, there wasn't much left once that facade had tumbled down.

Was there a reason why his abilities were hardly above average or why he lacked the brilliance and courage others possessed in abundance?

He was descended from two of the finest bloodlines; the Blacks were practically royalty. He had been taught from the earliest age that he was to consider himself superior not only to Muggles but also to the majority of wizarding folk, pure-bloods included.

By now, this sounded like a particularly bad joke.

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Author's note:

Many thanks go to Nooka and Athaeth for beta reading.


	10. Part 10

28. Blaise Zabini's Decision

The daydreams were gone. Somehow, writing to his father had scared them off. The days passed, but the happy mental images of scores of white-blonde children overrunning Hogwarts wouldn't come back.

He tried to console himself with the thought that his fantasies had been a tad impracticable anyway. Where was a woman who could give birth to twenty-four babies?

But the fact remained that he, for yet another time, had lost something he had liked.

... 

He did his morning walks, spent the afternoons sketching, and went for a swim after sundown, hoping the calm daily routine might help him to regain a state of inner calmness as well.

The beach had gone quiet. Save for the occasional toddler, there were hardly any children around anymore. All the shrieking and shouting, the laughter and the noisy games had vanished with them. The overall number of tourists had not decreased, though. Now, the majority of them were elderly people.

The most plausible reason for the rather abrupt change seemed to be that Muggles had schools, too, and that their older children were expected to be back there by the beginning of September.

It was odd to think about getting off the Hogwarts express and heading towards the carriages. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had not been able to see the creatures that pulled them.

While he sketched grazing sheep or seagulls diving for fish, his thoughts wandered twelve months back. The atmosphere at Hogwarts had been changed dramatically right from the start. Anxiety had hung in the air. It soon had become fear and, in the end, sheer terror. The regime the Carrows had established had made look Umbridge's like a walk in the park.

Blaise Zabini had become Head Boy. Whereas a large number of both students and teachers had been surprised, Draco had seen the logic of that choice right away – the new headmaster had spared himself the necessity of interacting with a disgraced Malfoy on a regular basis. And by doing so, the man had added another ounce of disgrace to Draco's already impressive score.

Draco had tried not to blame Zabini for something Snape had done. On the contrary, he had striven to maintain his reasonably good standing with him. But a variety of duties had quickly taken up all of Zabini's time, and he and Draco had exchanged not more than a few words of polite small talk once in a blue moon. It had seemed to Draco that Snape's move had lost him – as some sort of side effect – the closest thing to a friend he had ever had.

Draco remembered Snape's smug stance and the speech he had made – _We need a young wizard who will represent the finest Slytherin principles and who is also capable of reining in unruly students from other houses_.

Zabini had been up to that task indeed, just in an unexpected way. Draco still marvelled at his former classmate's quiet pluck. Of course, Zabini had been far from challenging the Carrows openly; he had acted on the sly. He had upheld the Slytherin principle of being guileful. With unruly behaviour, he had dealt by not bringing it to the attention of those who would be sure to take offence.

Obviously, neither Snape nor the Carrows had ever got suspicious of what their Head Boy was doing behind their backs, or else Zabini would have ended up chained to a dungeon wall.

Draco had been ignorant of what was going on for a full eight months. That long time was not only due to Zabini keeping his distance, but also to Draco's inability to imagine that a Slytherin – _any_ Slytherin – would play an active part in thwarting the Carrows and their evil activities.

Draco had caught on to Zabini's attitude one night late in April. He had had another of his breakdowns in Ghost Girl's bathroom when he suddenly had heard voices in the hall outside. He-Carrow had been there – and Zabini. _There is nothing to worry __about__, Professor. It's only the bloody ghost sobbing in her u-ben__d__. I've just checked._ Carrow had commended Zabini for his watchfulness and walked off.

The point was, Zabini hadn't checked. He hadn't known whether there was someone in the room besides the ghost, and if so, whether this someone was a frightened, little girl from Hufflepuff or, in fact, a seventh-year Slytherin student who was at his wits' end.

How often Zabini had outmanoeuvred the Carrows, Draco couldn't tell. There was only one other occasion he knew of. Zabini had cast Disillusionment Charms on Pritchard, Bole, and Wilkes thus helping the three first-years to elude a livid She-Carrow, who had been chasing them for Merlin knew what petty transgression.

Over the year, there had been several incidents that had left the Carrows at a complete loss: students inexplicably escaping from dead-end corridors, people being tipped off before raids took place, or hard evidence of someone's disobedience disappearing in a mysterious way.

The Carrows had cooked up schemes between themselves. Draco supposed that they had kept Snape posted about their doings. The other teachers had always been in the dark. In all probability, the Head Boy had usually been the first to learn about new designs, and who besides him would have had the means of passing on information or of delaying the hateful siblings for exactly the few seconds somebody needed to bolt?

It made sense, didn't it? There had always been more to Zabini than met the eye. Zabini would have had the brains and the talent to best Granger, but he simply couldn't be bothered. Quite the reverse, there had been tests when he had written down faulty answers on purpose. Draco had only once found the nerve to ask about that. Zabini's reply had been thoroughly enigmatic: _It perfectly suffices that _I_ know what I know. __I'm under no obligation__ to inform the rest of the world about it_.

Draco had had his last private conversation with Zabini almost exactly one year ago. _Forgive me for being blunt, Malfoy, but you don't stand a chance. You won't win, and you're already too far in __to be__ able to quit. It really wouldn't be prudent to seek your company._

And Zabini had stayed away from him ever since.

Draco had promised himself to seek answers that would hold true, and here was one of them: It hadn't been Snape's move that had ended their quasi-friendship, it had been Blaise Zabini's own, well-pondered decision.

... 

29. Contrast

He was sitting a little way off the Coast Path on a fallen tree. While his fingers were busy sketching the seascape, his thoughts wandered, like so very often, back in time.

They all had turned their back on him, first Blaise, then Pansy, and eventually even Crabbe and Goyle. He had never been particularly close to anyone else, and it had always been clear that he couldn't expect much support from his teachers. Snape was a singularity. He had saved him twice that fateful night – first from having to kill and an hour later from being killed, but the man had since snubbed him.

Draco had been on his own, and he hadn't been prepared for what he had to face. Nobody at Hogwarts had been prepared for Alecto and Amicus Carrow. Their malignity defied description. They hadn't been deranged the same way as his aunt, they had thought up their wicked schemes in cold blood, and they had undoubtedly surpassed themselves when they had come up with the idea of forcing students to use the Cruciatus Curse on each other.

Some people had downright refused to do it, namely Gryffindors who were brave rather than bright. Others had made half-hearted attempts, but nobody had really had what it took to cast an effective Cruciatus. The memory of his aunt raving about the curse still chilled Draco today. _Hatred isn't enough. Loathing isn't enough. Fury isn't enough. You need to really want to cause pain; you need to want to _enjoy_ it_.

That was, in fact, the point of all magic – you had to really want it. But by the time the Carrows had made students use the Cruciatus, Draco had already suffered too many of those curses himself to hope he would ever become good at casting them. So he had resorted – like many others – to cheating. Being good at performing common spells non-verbally had come in handy. He had used Jelly-Legs or Trip Jinxes, immediately followed up by Tarantellagra. The combination resulted in what seemed to be violent jerking since the victims lay on the floor while their arms and legs carried out wild, uncontrollable movements. He had rounded off the simulation with Gemitus and Cruditas. Cruditas caused stomach cramps; it did hurt, yes, but it was nothing compared to a genuine Cruciatus, and Gemitus made the victims scream in a loud and convincing manner.

In the beginning, it hadn't mattered much whether the feeble tries at the real curse or ruses put up instead caused little to nearly no pain. The Carrows hadn't checked too closely but had been content with the sight of twelve-year-old children writhing on the flagstones, and none of the targets had known what a Cruciatus was supposed to feel like. Even though the Carrows had used the curse frequently as punishment, the victims would still attribute the evident differences to lack of practice and experience in fellow students.

Things had taken a turn for the worse when Crabbe and Goyle – of all people! – had suddenly got good at performing the curse. From then on, an increasing number of students had known what to expect, and everybody putting up a show had run the risk of disclosure because there had been no guarantee whatsoever that the targets – especially ones from other houses – would be prudent enough to keep their mouths shut. The Carrows had always encouraged students to tell on others.

Draco remembered the first "training session" after the Easter holidays. The little Ravenclaw boy had looked ready to wet himself with fear. Draco's own fear hadn't been any less because he had known that Carrow would monitor him most closely after what had happened at Malfoy manor during the holidays. With not only the teacher present but Crabbe and Goyle as well and, to make matters even worse, wielding a borrowed wand, using his usual fake routine had been no option. He had had to come up with something less risky and had decided on Imperius, the one Unforgivable he _could_ cast. While he had dragged the skinny boy to the furthest corner of the room, his heart had hammered harder than a year earlier on the Astronomy Tower.

Yet, his plan had worked; Carrow had been fooled.

Although the trick had saved his neck once more, Draco felt none too good about it. To this day, he didn't know the boy's name or what the offence had been. He only remembered the boy's frightened face.

Immersed in his gloomy memories, Draco didn't notice the girl until she flopped down next to him on the tree trunk.

He looked at her in utter surprise. She wore a grey sweater with a hood plus the usual bluish Muggle trousers. She was no older than twenty and she certainly wasn't underfed.

"How's things?" she asked.

"Do I know you?"

"Not as such," she grinned. "You tried to run me down in the hall of a lodging house last week."

Her words gave him a start.

The grin on her round face grew wider. Everything on her seemed to be well rounded, somehow. Her head with its very short, brown hair looked like a Quaffle.

He rallied. "Please, accept my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour."

For a moment, she seemed stunned. Then she broke into a bout of mirthful laughter. "That's all right," she said at last, still chuckling. "I would also have run like blazes when an owl had come into _my_ room."

"You've been in my room?" he burst out.

"Are you mad? There was a live owl sitting on the bed! It was busy eating a sheet of paper or something, but when it saw me, it started to hoot like crazy. It spread its wings, and I assure you, I ran to my room at the same speed you had come down the stairs. Debbie and I didn't dare to leave the window open in case the ugly bird decided to pay _us_ a visit."

She suddenly reached for his sketchpad.

"May I?"

Not bothering to wait for Draco's consent, she leafed through the pad.

He held his breath. Besides the many sketches showing seagulls with the promontory in the backdrop there were also ones filled with dread and Chimera-headed flames. She didn't wonder about them, though, if the steady rhythm in which she flipped the pages over was any indication.

"You aren't half bad at sketching," she observed, handing him his possession back. "What I really wanted to ask is what exactly is a 'stupid muggle oaf'?"

Her question brought unwonted warmth to his cheeks.

"It's ... an expletive that was kind of popular in my dorm at school. I'd rather you forgot you ever heard it."

"I might be persuaded," she said, her grin taking on a mischievous quality. "You could give me your phone number. I happen to be from Wiltshire like you."

"How... how do you know I'm from Wiltshire?"

"Mr Penwith told us."

She was about to say more, but was interrupted by another girl who stood flanked by two bicycles a short distance away on the Coast Path. Bicycles were a two-wheeled means of transportation popular with Muggles. Draco liked them, too. Unlike cars, they made neither stink nor noise. He also thought the name bi-cycle to be quite fitting. Apparently, Muggles weren't completely daft all the time.

"Stop flirting, Trish, and come already!" the other girl called. "We're lagging behind schedule."

"Sorry, I must dash; Debbie's getting impatient," the girl said, rising.

He stood as well, acting on manners drummed into him when he was a child.

"It took us two days more than planned to get to St Ives. Now we have hurry back home," she elaborated. "Maybe that's just as well. Sleeping in _Ole Penwith's Owl Lodge_ again would be creepy. Okay then, nice to have met you."

"Likewise," he said automatically.

Instead of walking off, she took one of his crayons, snatched the sketchpad from him and scribbled something on it.

"There," she said, thrusting crayon and paper into his hands. "Ring me up once you're back in Wiltshire."

Bewildered, he studied her writing. It was a series of numbers.

He spent half an hour trying to figure out whether the figures contained an encoded message. However, he wasn't able to discern any pattern, and eventually he gave up.

Muggles were weird folk.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 

... 

Author's note:

Many thanks go to Nooka and Athaeth for beta reading.


	11. Part 11

30. Going Back

The days grew rapidly shorter and also cooler. It rained a lot. He went for walks nonetheless because sitting in his broom closet of a room for the whole, long day was unbearable.

Welcome as the exercise was, his trousers got wet where the raincoat ended and so did his trainers. He found no method to dry them afterwards. The room was so dank, everything was just as clammy in the morning as it had been the night before. Opening the window only served to invite more humidity in.

Sitting in the _Merry Fisherman_ until his clothes had sufficiently dried was no practicable alternative, either. He tried it once, and everything he had worn that night had reeked of cigarette smoke for the following day.

So, he took a warm shower when he got back and went straight to bed after that, but even the linen had started to feel slightly damp.

... 

There came two days of storm. With the gale ripping at his clothes and the rain beating down on him like a club, Draco could barely make it to the baker's. Forced to stay in his room, he paced the space between door and window like a caged animal. Three steps hither, three steps thither – the whole room was a mere two feet longer than the bed!

He did press-ups and knee bends. He did any exercise that he remembered from long-gone hours of Quidditch training, any exercise that could be done in the limited space without smashing the windowpane or hurting his limbs at the walls or the locker.

On the third morning the storm had subsided, and he decided to leave. There was no point in tarrying any longer. The weather could turn worse again any moment.

Packing up was quickly done. He did not have many more possessions than when he had first arrived here. He took only the crayons and the small supply of pristine paper with him, his sketches he left behind. In the end, everything fitted into his rucksack and the largest plastic bag – the one that had originally belonged to the dressing gown. Plastic was waterproof, so anything wrapped into it should be safe.

He couldn't find Mr Penwith anywhere. So, he took one of the pictures, wrote a short note on the backside, and put it onto the racks in the hen house.

Then, he walked inland. Knowing the area quite well by now, he had reached the ferry before new bouts of rain drifted in from the sea.

... 

The city was as noisy as it had been in summer. The cars rushed around unchecked, but the gale blew at least their exhausts away.

Finding the train station was easier than he had expected, and he got there without any stupid vehicle attempting to ram him. However, once he stood in the large reception hall, he realised that he had no plan that went beyond reaching this very place.

Did he really want to spend the winter at Great-aunt Lucrecia's? The prospect made him shudder.

Fortunately, the next train to the east wouldn't leave for another hour, so he sat down on a bench, placing his rucksack and the plastic bag at his feet.

Mulling his situation over, it occurred to him that he didn't know the way to Lucrecia Runcorn's cottage. He only remembered running in a roughly westward direction because the rising sun had dazzled him. He couldn't even tell for how long exactly he had run. Hoping he would be able to retrace his steps seemed ridiculous.

Leaving his complete lack of enthusiasm aside, this was just the perfect excuse for not going back today.

However, what he should do instead, he had no idea. He would probably have to go elsewhere; the Muggles might have laws against sleeping on benches at train stations. He had already spotted a couple of policemen prowling the area.

... 

He still sat on the bench when the big clock above the entrance doors struck seven. He wasn't alone anymore, though. Within the last minutes, a crowd had gathered – more than twenty nervous young people of both sexes had put down their luggage right next to him. Their agitated chatter droned out the announcements of trains leaving and arriving.

He was about to quit the place and tried to wedge his bag out from under a heavy suitcase, when suddenly the mood changed. Everyone fell silent and listened to a man reading addresses off a list. He elaborated about prices per week or per month and added cryptic remarks like "ten minutes on foot to the campus" or "no Internet access."

No sooner had the man finished his recital than there was pandemonium. Everyone present – except Draco of course – seemed hell-bent on getting his attention.

The man yelled in an effort to make himself heard over the racket, "There are thirty-three beds for about twenty bums, so don't get your knickers in a twist! We'll start with Number six Albert Street. Two rooms. Girls only."

About ten girls jumped eagerly up and down, squealing and waving their arms. Two lucky ones got some sort of leaflet and hurried off. The next person to leave was the owner of the large suitcase that had lain on Draco's bag.

This seemed the ideal opportunity to get away from the commotion. Draco quickly stood, seized the bag and reached for the rucksack – only to realise that it had become entangled with somebody else's.

He tugged. Nothing happened.

The shouting around him went on with undiminished force. The voices rose even more when a quarrel about _smoking restrictions_ broke out.

His frustration mounting, he tugged again and harder than before. His rucksack didn't come free, but the other one toppled over which caused the owner, a thickset, blonde boy not older than Draco, to notice. The boy bent down to fiddle with his rucksack, yelling simultaneously over his shoulder, "Here! _I'm_ a non-smoker!"

"Yeah, but we need a third one," somebody Draco couldn't see yelled back.

"What about you?" the boy, still struggling with their baggage, asked Draco. "Do you smoke?"

"No!" Draco snapped.

"That's brilliant!" the boy exclaimed. He straightened up with his freed rucksack in one hand. Landing his other hand heavily on Draco's shoulder, he told the man with the list, "My good, old friend here is a non-smoker, too!"

The man gave Draco, who shook the stranger's hand off his shoulder, an appraising look.

"You agree?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course, he does!" the blonde boy declared loudly. Looking beseechingly at Draco, he added in a low voice, "It's less than half an hour on foot from here. I know the place; it's next to Hind Green. All right?"

Draco swallowed. Was the solution _that_ simple?

"I can have a room?" he asked to make sure he wasn't mistaking the situation. "For tonight?"

"Sure. What did you think? Next month? Three rooms, three blokes. That's the deal. Shared bathroom, though. You can't expect en suite for that price. A quite reasonable one, if you ask me," the boy answered. "Okay, there're slanted walls, but what the heck? Internet access is far more important."

Draco hesitantly inclined his head.

"Is this a yes?" another boy, somewhat older but less tall and strapping than the rucksack owner, joined in. "Come on, mate, make your mind up before that idiot from Blackburn actually finds somebody who wants to share with _him_."

Draco nodded.

... 

31. Manchester United vs. Arsenal

The three of them, Dwight, Marc, and Draco, left the train station together. It was already dark outside, but the streets were generously lit with artificial lights, some of them flashing madly.

They set off in a northward direction, but had walked less than thirty yards when his flat-mates-to-be suddenly stopped short. The burly one lashed out and jerked Draco back.

"Ey, you bloody moron!" he bawled. "It's _red_!"

The Muggle pointed to a red lamp that hung suspended almost directly above them.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled, regretting that he had got involved with those oafs. He had known them for ten minutes altogether, and he already disliked them thoroughly. He understood nothing of their Muggle gibberish about scoring off penalties and disallowing goals for offside.

The red light went out. Instead, a green one appeared, and the Muggles moved forward as if nothing had ever happened.

Tuning out their hogwash about biased refs and outrageously obvious dives, Draco looked about him and detected green and red lamps in many places. He noted how both pedestrians and cars heeded the signals: Red meant stop, and green meant go. It was so simple, so Muggle-like...

There were also yellow lamps, and it irked him a bit that he couldn't figure out what those indicated before the neighbourhood became significantly quieter. Here were no busy junctions, and the vehicles that moved did so slowly. Most cars stood with two wheels up on the pavement and were perfectly silent.

Terraced, three-storey buildings lined both sides of the street. A few hundred yards further to the north, houses were only two storeys high. The terraces were interrupted in irregular intervals by tiny patches of greenery.

"So, what do you think," Marc, the taller Muggle, nudged him the very moment that Draco had realised the street to be a cul-de-sac. "Will Manchester come out on top this season? The way he messed up in Saint-Etienne, Beckham will have to try his damnedest to get back into people's good books."

"I don't know," Draco answered very truthfully.

"What do you mean – _you don't know_?" the Muggle asked suspiciously. "You aren't supporting Arsenal, are you?"

"No, I don't think so," Draco said and, in an attempt to end the topic, added, "I'm not really familiar with this subject."

The shorter Muggle laughed out loud, the taller one gave him a wary look. "You haven't said a single word all way. What's up with you?" he asked. "What subject are you going to study, anyway?"

Despite having succeeded in changing the topic, Draco was at a loss again. He had no intention to study anything in the near future, but the Muggle's stance and tone of voice suggested that such an answer wouldn't go down well.

What on earth would Muggles be studying? They certainly had never heard of Arithmancy or Divination. Did they know what Herbology or Astronomy were?

"History," he said.

"Figures."

The expression on the Muggle's face reminded Draco of the look of sober derision McGonagall had always reserved for Slytherins in general and for him in particular. Without warning, an old anger flared up inside him, one he had almost forgotten during the past months. He was not going to take ridicule from some stupid Muggle, most certainly not. There were limits...

"What is wrong with studying History?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" the Muggle said, his lip curling.

"Why are you smirking, then?"

"I smirk? Fancy that... Tell me, do you wear that see-through raincoat of yours in bed?"

Draco whipped out his wand and, channelling all his fury into the curse, cast a Cruditas. Or so he thought for a split second. His half-outstretched arm quivered in midair, his palm itched where the wood of the handle should be.

He withdrew his hand, feeling embarrassed beyond description.

Simultaneously, he realised that he had no means to defend himself should the darn Muggle choose to attack him bodily. The git managed to look livid and confused at the same time. He seemed to have backed off a little, but he still stood too close for comfort.

"What was _that_?" the Muggle growled, advancing again. "Take-won-do or whatever they call that Asiatic combat technique?"

Draco felt a prickly feeling spreading out from his palm and speeding up his arm. His mind raced. Had he read something – _anything_ – about the use of raw magic in the _Code of Conduct_? He couldn't recall. But even if using it were allowed, it would be no good. He was a mediocre wizard when he did have a wand, so hoping he could blast the athletic figure in front of him off his feet with a bout of unrefined magic was absurd.

With no other option left, he was about to run for it – rain and late hour be damned – when the other Muggle intervened.

"Is it really necessary to kick up a fight before we've even reached our digs? We're going to be stuck with each other, remember? Sharing a bathroom and stuff? So, get a grip! If Draco is playing for the other team... well, it's his business. I don't mind as long as he doesn't peep while I'm in the shower. Just let's settle this once and for all," he said, taking one step closer to Draco and facing him full on. "Are you? Are you playing for the other team?"

"What team?" Draco, both angry and scared, asked back. No part of this conversation made really sense to him. "Arsenal?"

The shorter Muggle doubled over with laughter. The other one growled something under his breath about being able to spot fairies a mile away and stomped off to the second last house to the left.

Muggles could see fairies? Utterly bemused, Draco mulled the stunning piece of information over. Even if they did, surely there wouldn't be any fairies about tonight given the unpleasant weather in general and the chilly drizzle in particular?

"You looked downright scary," Dwight said, still chuckling, "doing that war cry."

Draco shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but what was this all about?" he asked.

"I guess he's just scared it might rub off on him. That's silly, of course, but many people still think that way." Dwight shrugged. "Come on, let's check in."

Dwight went to the house, and Draco trailed along, telling himself that he should stop asking questions. The answers only added to his bewilderment.

... 

32. Muggle Studies

The landlady was an agile, middle-aged woman, and their acquaintance started with the fuss she made about their wet and dirty shoes.

Draco was the only one who had slippers about him. This little detail – maybe combined with the mocking remarks he earned from Marc for owning slippers – endeared him to her right from the beginning.

There were formalities to be settled. Names, dates, and addresses had to be written into some book, and the landlady asked the rent for the first month in advance.

Draco pondered to negotiate a shorter stay but abandoned that idea when he heard the others haggle over a discount and fail completely. Perhaps another month's respite before he had to find a way back to Runcorn's cottage wasn't all that bad. The downside was that he would have to put up with two crazy Muggles.

... 

He was still silently debating his situation when the landlady took them upstairs to a converted attic.

Marc and Dwight claimed rooms in a rush. Obviously, they didn't think it necessary to pay attention to the woman's many instructions. She elaborated about the purpose of three large, lockable baskets that lined the hall. For a reasonable fee, she would wash and iron any laundry put in there and return it within less than forty-eight hours.

The emphasis on how the price was a reasonable one seemed a bit suspicious, but since she was in all likelihood more skilled at cleaning garments than he was, Draco thought he might give her laundry service a try. His resolve was strengthened when he saw the bathroom. The room was tiled to the ceiling and sparkling clean, but the washbasin seemed fairly small. Neither his jacket nor his trousers would fit in completely.

Eventually, the landlady led him to the room at the far end of the hall.

"Well, this will be your refuge then," she said, turning the key. She removed it from the lock and handed it to him. "Your friends were eager to have the rooms that can get pretty hot in the evenings. Yours faces north-east, so don't worry."

"They aren't my friends," Draco said as they went in. "I've never met them before."

"I thought so. But I expect you to get along nevertheless. I can't have any fighting in here. That would scare the salesmen off. No loud music either, especially not after ten in the evening, and most importantly no girls. I'm sorry for that, really. You're young, I know, but the last thing I need is talk in the neighbourhood about me running some kind of bawdy house."

While she talked, Draco scanned the room. It was spacious by comparison. There were a wardrobe, a desk, an easy chair, and another chair that had, for some reason, five wheels. The bed stood to the right, flanked by two squat bookshelves, and the floor was covered with a plain, brownish carpet. Unfortunately, there was no fireplace.

Didn't Muggles heat their homes at all?

"You look a bit disappointed," she observed. "What's the matter, dear?"

"It's not very warm in here," he said.

Actually, it was cold. Damp clothes wouldn't dry any better than in his previous room.

"Well, turn the heat on," she said, smiling amiably. "But please, be sure to turn it down every time you leave the room for more than an hour."

"I'm afraid I don't..." he trailed off, stifling a heavy sigh. He didn't even know how to phrase the question. "What exactly do you expect me to do?"

"It's not that difficult. Come here," she said, beckoning him to the window. Beneath it, there was the same ugly piece of "decoration" that had been in his room at Mr Penwith's. The landlady pointed to a small cylindrical object that stuck out at one side. She spun the little widget so that three black slashes were to be seen instead of the initial single one.

"Three should be enough," she said, spinning the widget back and forth. More marks appeared – they were, in fact, Roman numbers. "It's not yet winter. Before leaving, you turn the heat down to the lowest setting. Like this. See?"

The lone dash was back.

"The point is saving energy," she went on, "and, needless to say, money. But don't turn the heating off altogether" – _off_ was marked with a tiny dot – "because that would affect water circulation. Don't ask dear, I'm no plumber."

"Err... thanks," he managed.

"You're welcome. If you have more questions, feel free to come down and ask. There's a bell in the breakfast room, just ring. If I'm in, I'll hear. By the way, breakfast is between half past seven and nine. Don't be late."

Before she bid him good night, she repeated two times that he was always and under any circumstances to lock the front door and that smoking as well as the use of any other type of "drug" was strictly prohibited.

When she had left, Draco very cautiously touched the _heating device_. It was warm. It was far from burning his fingers, but it was warm...

In his mind's eye, he could see its counterpart in the room he had left this morning. The same small, cylindrical widget had been attached at the side, and he clearly remembered seeing the tiny black dot that meant _off_.

Again, it was so simple. So easy. So Muggle-like.

And so utterly stupid of him.

He knew nothing.

There were, for example, two items in the room that resembled lamps. One sat on the desk, the other one was fastened to the slanted wall above the bed.

He examined them. They both had little... well, thingamajigs that looked like the slightly bigger thingamajigs with which you could operate the light at the ceiling. He had used the bigger ones countless times both in his room and in the bathroom at Mr Penwith's. He had seen the landlady doing it tonight – on the stairs, in the hall, in the bathroom, and in this room here when they had first entered.

Whereas the thingamajig that clung to the wall next to the door worked as expected – light off, light on – operating the little ones attached to the lamp-like objects had no other effect than a faint clack.

Perhaps he was wrong and the objects weren't lamps at all. They had tails. These tails were made of plastic – no surprise here – and disappeared into the wall. More precisely, they disappeared into two plastic rectangles set into the wall. And the rectangles had thingamajigs, too. He took a deep breath and operated those – the lamp above the bed lit up, the one on the desk didn't. It took him less than two minutes to find the knack: The thingamajigs had to be worked in correct order; that was all.

Feeling strangely elated by having figured this out, he turned back to the _heating device_.

Spinning the little cylinder had no immediate effect on the temperature, but it affected the soft rushing noise inside the device. The higher the setting the more intense got the noise. The landlady had mentioned water – perhaps the device was something like a hot water boiler, only with the water being eternally caught in it because there was no tap.

However, to keep water hot for a long time without a proper fire, you needed really advanced magic. He wondered how the Muggles achieved it.

The question triggered a memory. Before he had to choose his N.E.W.T. subjects, his mother had taken him to a professional soothsayer in order to ask which subjects would most benefit his future.

_ Herbology will ensure the young man's happiness, _the answer had been_, History or Runes wouldn't go amiss, and Muggle Studies is an absolute must._

Fuming, his mother had refused to pay the bill.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 

... 

Author's notes:

(1) For everyone who felt as much at sea as Draco did

Marc refers to the FIFA World Cup of 1998. On June 30, England lost in the round of 16 to Argentina after a penalty shoot-out in St. Etienne, France. The press, in their lovely ways, blamed the disaster on David Beckham, who had been sent off during the game.

Manchester United won the British Premier League (est. 1992/93) in 1992/93, 1993/94, 1995/96, and 1996/97. In 1997/98, Arsenal won with Manchester being runner-up. Marc had his wish fulfilled, and Manchester won again in 1998/99 (plus another seven times since).

The Blackburn Rovers winning the season of 1994/95 could perhaps be the reason why Marc and Dwight don't want to share the flat with "that idiot from Blackburn".

(2) Thanks to Nooka and Athaeth for beta reading.


	12. Part 12

33. City Life

Draco did his best to stay out of his flatmates' way. Marc snubbed him anyway. Dwight made two or three feeble attempts to invite him to merry-makings of some description or other, but Draco declined, pointing out that people would most likely have more fun without him. Dwight, although trying to be polite about it, wholeheartedly agreed.

Marc soon became a nuisance in general terms. The bathroom was a mess whenever he'd been in. He slept till noon and stayed up till three in the morning. The latter might have been tolerable if it hadn't been for the infuriating noise coming from his room until long after midnight. The oaf steadfastly maintained the noise in question was music. Dwight even agreed with him on that, but Draco seriously doubted it. They were Muggles and had probably strange notions about arts, but the incessant rhythmic stomping resembled troll combat more than anything else, let alone music. The landlady seemed of a similar opinion; she threw Marc out long before Halloween.

A lean man in his late twenties moved into the vacated room. He had Asiatic features and introduced himself as Mr Wang.

Mr Wang was a pleasant neighbour. He was as quiet as a mouse and left the bathroom always in an immaculate state. He greeted Draco with a very small bow as often as they met, be that seven times a day. Since Draco was no stranger to formal politeness, he had no problem with returning each greeting by inclining his head, this way indicating a bow without actually bowing. They got along.

Dwight moved out soon after Marc – not because he was forced to but because he had found, as he put it, a place with a more relaxed atmosphere.

Draco didn't miss him, and the room remained vacant.

... 

The changes in the neighbouring rooms notwithstanding, Draco couldn't bear spending much time inside. It wasn't claustrophobia. It was something else. Even though the problem had plagued him for months by now he couldn't put a name to it.

He went for walks. Bad weather didn't trouble him – his room got warm quickly after turning the widget of the heating device to show three or four dashes. Wet clothes were dry in the morning, and he could take nice, warm baths.

Just north of his new lodgings there was a park with many old trees. Hind Green was nice, but not large enough for long, exhausting walks. So, Draco ventured further away, keeping mostly to the quieter streets. The big, busy streets could only be crossed safely in places that were equipped with green and red lights. He learned to distinguish between green lights for vehicles and green lights for humans, and he also learned to heed certain signs painted onto the asphalt. Soon he knew the shortest as well as the safest way from his lodgings to the marina or the nearby citadel.

A few oversized roads were so extremely busy they couldn't be crossed at all. Apparently, even the Muggles had realised that and had dug tunnels underneath them. But the total opposite existed as well – there were streets where no cars were allowed. Draco discovered a whole cluster of such quaint alleys near the marina. The area was appropriately marked as _pedestrian precinct_.

He liked it there. He could melt into the crowd; nobody bothered him. The houses were old and handsome and begged to be sketched. There were pubs and many little shops that had tastefully – by Muggle standards anyway – decorated shop windows. These shops were specialised, as it was proper, on a select range of goods – for example on clothing, perfumes, confectioneries, or second hand books.

In stark contrast to the shops in the pedestrian precinct was another type of Muggle facility. Regrettably, such a store was situated next to Hind Green. The building, resembling a monstrous, whitish-grey barn, looked already appalling from the outside. It had no windows. Instead, large advertising panels were affixed to the long walls, boasting in capital letters, _WE SELL EVERYTHING_. That claim could well be true because inside there were shelves upon shelves filled with a mind-boggling variety of goods. There were briquettes and brioches, shoes and shovels, pears and pans. There were all sorts of bottles and boxes, big or small, painted in glaring colours and marked with strange brand names. This so-called shop was a maze of narrow, criss-crossing alleyways that were more often than not blocked by big stacks of more goods. The worst about the whole affair were the employees. They expected you to do their job and called that "self-service". Draco went in there only once. That was experience enough.

So, if he needed something, he went to the pedestrian precinct. He took care he knew the opening hours and exact location of essential shops and also memorised street names and names of buildings.

Buying a few sketching supplies, a second towel, and a bar of soap went well. However, when he bought a sandalwood-scented shaving stick, he learned that the phrase "amazingly low price" was a euphemism for "abysmally bad quality". Whatever had been used for making that shaving stick, sandalwood had had nothing to do with it. So, he became wary of advertisements. He also learned to be careful with selecting places to eat. Dishes called _Prawn Ambot Tik_ or _Goa Pork Vindaloo_ tasted every bit as exotic as their names sounded.

... 

After weeks of pondering, he decided to buy a new pair of trousers. He needed something to wear if he didn't want to sit around in his room until the landlady returned the laundry. Besides, the only pair of trousers he had at this point in time had undeniably become threadbare. Why they had worn thin so rapidly was a bit puzzling. Madam Malkins often emphasized how she used only cloth of the highest quality and how she always made sure the articles she sold would please their owners for a long time. On the other hand, if the witch had placed Durability Charms on his trousers, he would have broken the bloody _Code of Conduct_ by wearing them for the past months... This was really vexing – did he have to be grateful for Malkins making promises she didn't keep?

Finally, he pushed all qualms aside and walked into a shop where they sold, according to the placard in the window, clothing for outdoor activities.

The shop owner – or rather shop assistant – wasn't much older than Draco and quite enthusiastic. He suggested right away a variety of trousers that were "absolutely in" and a "definite must-have this season". It took Draco a considerable effort to refrain from telling the annoying git to shut the hell up.

Tuning out the shop assistant's silly prattle, Draco hurried to try on some of the less ugly trousers. The pair he chose was made of nine tenths cotton and one tenth polyester according to a curious printing on the inside of the waistband. Draco hadn't the faintest idea what polyester was, but the trousers fitted him well, didn't have as many bulky bags as some others, and the fabric didn't chafe even though it looked sturdy enough to last at least as long as Madam Malkins's merchandise.

He also treated himself to a jacket with warm padding. It was longer than jackets usual were, yet not long enough to be a coat. The shop man called it a _parka_.

... 

Needless to say, the purchases ate away at his valid money.

That was why he started to comb the streets systematically for bank houses and post offices. He still had the little leaflet from the friendly shop owner at Trethwyn, and it indeed proved helpful. As promised, the companies listed there changed up to a thousand pounds without any trouble. Draco made sure the sum was never exactly one thousand in case that might look suspicious. He changed nine hundred and eighty or nine hundred and sixty-five, and the story about the grandfather saving up a little bit of money for his grandson usually met with understanding.

... 

34. Lissy

He already heard the clamour from afar.

As he reached Hind Green Close, he detected the source of it. Shouting riotously, two small boys threw stones into a sandpit.

They were aiming at a screech owl! The bird hopped awkwardly on the spot but didn't take flight. Draco, acting on impulse, rushed forward.

"You!" he yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"

Utterly startled, the boys dropped their stones.

"We're scaring the evil bird off," the taller one said defiantly. "That's our playground!"

"Owls aren't evil!" Draco spat.

"Granny says they're in league with witches," the boy said, stamping his little foot.

Draco hesitated. What did Muggle children know about witches?

"Have you ever seen one?" he asked irritably.

"An owl?" the boy asked back stupidly, pointing a dirty finger at the bird sitting in the middle of the sandpit.

"No, a witch!"

"No!" both boys cried, horrified.

"No?"

"Only on the telly," the younger boy admitted, not daring to meet Draco's eyes. "But no real ones. Granny says witches come and hex boys who are naughty."

"And you think throwing stones at a helpless bird is not naughty?" Draco asked, finally comprehending the absurdity of what he was doing.

Was he really trying to lecture two Muggle brats about – well, about what? How owls were useful for carrying letters? Muggles had personnel for delivering mail and newspapers; he had seen them doing their job. And the punch line was that, if the witch in question were his mother, if _she_ caught anyone attacking her owl, she'd be sure to hex them good and proper.

"You stay put!" he ordered the boys, not knowing why he bothered.

Cautiously, he approached the owl. It carried a letter indeed; he could make out the parchment fixed to its leg even from several yards distance.

"It's alright," he said soothingly because, when he got nearer, the bird raised its leg so high, it almost toppled over. "I'm Draco Malfoy. The message is for me, right?"

Owls couldn't nod, but the soft hooting noise clearly meant yes.

He picked the bird up and examined it. The owl was female and quite young. He had never seen her before. Her injury seemed to have been caused by a beak rather than a stone. It wasn't too bad but probably painful.

He removed the letter from her leg, slipped it into his pocket, and walked back to the boys. They looked completely awestruck.

"You dare touch it?" the younger one breathed.

"She's injured," Draco said curtly.

"We didn't mean to!" the older boy hastened to say. "We just wanted to scare it off... We can't play when it sits in the sandpit. Granny says owls are _bad omens._"

"You can't blame the owl for bad news," Draco murmured, all of a sudden overwhelmed by distressing memories. The monster had done exactly that – it had fed Father's stately eagle owl to Nagini because the poor bird had delivered unwelcome news. Draco didn't even know what the message had been about.

Seeing the younger boy's anxious face, he rallied. "Look, you don't throw stones at a mail servant just because they brought your parents a letter with bad news, do you?"

The boys exchanged bemused glances. After some hesitation, they shook their heads.

Draco wasn't convinced that he had got the point across but decided to let the matter rest.

"I'm sorry, owl," the younger boy suddenly addressed the bird in Draco's hands, and the older one also mumbled something that could pass for an apology.

"Is it yours?" the younger boy asked, now slightly more confident. "Does it have a name?"

Draco, surprised by the turn of the conversation, didn't answer at once. The boy apparently took this as encouragement and suggested to call the owl Lissy. The older one objected by saying Lissy was a name for budgies. They quarrelled until the younger one broke into tears.

"Stop that," Draco said, feeling embarrassed for no good reason. "Will you?"

"Why can't we call it Lissy?" the younger boy sniffed.

Draco was at a loss. Pointing out that the bird in all likelihood had a name already would hardly improve matters, especially because he couldn't tell what this name was.

"You can keep watch," he said instead. "I'll go and fetch some food for her."

Nursing her back to health was the only thing to do. He'd lost Merkur, almost a year ago, and judging from the way the bird had been half eaten, he'd lost him to Greyback.

He placed the young owl on the topmost bar of the irregular, wooden structure standing alongside the sandpit. He wasn't sure as to what its original purpose might have been; he'd only ever seen Muggle children climb it up and down.

Then he ran down the narrow pathway behind the houses that led to the ugly, oversized shop. He didn't like the place, but it was near. Rather than one of the lazy employees, he asked an elderly customer where to find raw meat and pet supplies, and she kindly told him.

... 

When he returned with an empty cardboard-box, a bag of hay and two small packages of chicken liver – it had taken him a while to find something that wasn't thoroughly frozen – the boys were still there. He hadn't expected them to be.

The expressions on their little, round faces alternated between fascination and revulsion while they watched him feeding small bits of liver to the hungry owl.

"It's not cooked," the younger boy said at last. "That's icky, mum says so."

"Owls eat mice," Draco said. "And they don't fry them first."

"Is this mice?" the boy asked, eyeing the package suspiciously.

"No, it's not, but she cannot hunt with her injured shoulder, and I have to feed her something."

He stopped, however, before the owl had eaten her fill and put the remainder of the liver at the bottom of the large cardboard-box.

"Come on, you'll stay with me until your wing is better," he murmured, taking her down from her high perch and placing her in the box as well. He padded the box with hay. Closing the lid, he whispered, "The landlady mustn't see you or she'll have hysterics."

"You're taking it home?" the younger boy enquired.

"Yes, I am," Draco answered, looking the sprog up and down. The child's curiosity, his eagerness, and his... trust almost compelled him to give answers where there no questions had been asked. It was the strangest encounter he'd had in the Muggle world thus far. "And you can tell your grandmother," he added, "that witches may come and hex people who talk ill about owls."

... 

He sat the box on the tiny balcony. Well, "balcony" was a bold overstatement. The whole contraption was three feet in length and less than one foot in width. Since the glass-panelled door leading to this would-be balcony had been concealed by a curtain upon his arrival, he had only discovered the questionable feature the following morning.

He had asked the landlady about its purpose. She had shrugged and said such doors were probably the result of a bored architect's whim, but that she didn't mind because having them was good for airing the rooms.

Having the narrow space between the door and the wrought iron of the railing was definitely good for keeping injured owls. The bird could sit there protected from the cold winds by the cardboard and from the rain by the slightly projecting roof until the wound had healed. Draco would provide suitable food; he would find some Muggle stuff that could replace proper owl treats.

When he had made sure the owl was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, he took the note out of his pocket.

There was a short postscript written on the outside.

_"I named my new owl after the place where she was bred: Lisboa."_

So the bird's name was Lissy after all Draco thought with something like amusement.

However, no sooner had he glanced at the actual letter than the faint smile slid off his face.

... 

35. An Ultimatum

_ "Draco,  
There will be a formal dinner at Great-aunt Lucrecia's on December 25__th__. I expect you to attend,  
Mother"_

Time and again, he had postponed going back. He had already paid the rent for next month, diligently avoiding any thought about returning to Runcorn's cottage. In particular, he avoided thinking about the "welcome" he'd have to expect from his father's great-aunt.

But not showing up for a Yule dinner would be inexcusable behaviour in his mother's eyes. Running off without a word had already been bad enough.

He hadn't seen her in months.

Did he miss her? The answer was yes and no.

As a child, he had felt content and secure when he was around his family. He had been convinced in his heart of hearts that nothing bad could ever happen to him while he was with his parents. He had perceived their protection as universal, their power as infinite.

The feeling of security had crumbled to nothing now. It hadn't happened in one go, it had happened bit by bit, and the process had started a long time ago.

One morning all those years ago, he had been denied seeing Grandfather because the "disease was infectious". Soon after, there had been no Grandfather to see anymore. He had disappeared from Draco's world without saying good-bye.

Draco, aged five, had not understood how a member of the Malfoy family could possibly catch a deadly disease. It had seemed an outrage to him that the world should be so badly organised. The problem had bothered him a great deal, and he had finally come up with the explanation that someone had made a horrible mistake by somehow handing the illness to his grandfather. He had presented those findings to his parents, and they had been angry with him.

Why?

... 

He didn't get any sleep that night. Myriad memories were awake again and kept him awake in turn. At half past two in the morning, he fled his bed.

He got dressed and went jogging in Hind Green. The steady rhythm of slow running calmed him down somewhat. After about an hour he was at least able to focus on thinking of his mother.

Albeit the once prevailing feeling of all-inclusive safety had gone completely, she had still been a source of support even in the most difficult times. Other than his father's generalised demands for behaving as a true Malfoy should, her advice had often proved useful. Her guidelines had been detailed as well as practicable and had helped him in many a tricky situation.

He had never openly disobeyed her. And there wasn't only Yule; there was also her birthday in the week between the winter solstice and New Year's Eve.

He felt guilty for leaving the way he did in summer. It had been a coward's way out.

Then again, he _was_ a coward.

He would like her to forgive him. He would like to see her. He had never intended to stay away that long...

... 

Lissy quickly got better; he didn't.

Tending to the owl was his only actual task. Apart from that, he spent his days jogging. He started right after breakfast and continued until long after nightfall. All physical exercise notwithstanding, he tossed and turned sleeplessly in his bed at night. His thoughts ran around in circles. A faint voice somewhere at the back of his mind kept whimpering, _Don't. Don't go_. The louder voice droned on about manners, upbringing, and obligation. How could he refuse his mother's call?

The landlady made things worse by constantly dropping remarks about how nice, appropriate, and rewarding it was to see one's family during the festive season. She wouldn't leave the topic alone. After a few days, she explicitly asked when he would be going home for the holidays.

He wanted her to leave him be. What business did she have prying into his privacy? But for some strange reason, he couldn't bring himself to snap at her. Instead, he told her in polite tones, "I am presently contemplating a departure in the foreseeable future."

She made no reply but gaped at him in utter bafflement.

... 

When Lissy had recovered enough to fly again, he still wasn't sure what to do. Besides, if he indeed decided to return to Great-aunt Lucrecia's, how was he to pull it off?

In the end, he composed a short note, essentially asking his mother to send the owl back with orders to guide him to the cottage because otherwise he might have difficulty finding the place.

Whether this would work remained to be seen. Lissy was rather young and didn't have much experience. Mail owls were said to help and protect each other. A flock of determined owls could scare any eagle off. Seen in this light, the injury she had suffered should be a rare exception. On the other hand, Lissy was a stranger and in all likelihood not too well acquainted with the native birds. Why had his mother bought an owl from Portugal?

He felt a fresh upsurge of qualms while he watched Lissy fly off.

Basically, he had sought solitude to come to terms with his situation, to mull the events of his life over, and to find answers. He hadn't made much progress. Would that change? How likely was he to find in January an answer that he couldn't find in December?

He hated his failing, and failing, and failing again. It made him want to scream. It made him want to kick things, to smash things.

Luckily, it was the pile of sketches that he grabbed first. He flung it across the room; the wad hit the wardrobe with a dull thud and fell down. A few sheets of paper that had separated themselves from the stack floated behind.

Before he could do any real damage to the furniture, he stormed out and ran to the park. There, he kept jogging until he was ready to fall asleep on his feet.

... 

His nerves calmed a bit when he started to concentrate on practical matters.

He had to pack.

First were the banknotes, old and new ones carefully separated and wrapped in plastic. The _Code_ _of_ _Conduct_ and his drawing utensils were next, but then it became apparent that his possessions wouldn't fit into the rucksack anymore, and carrying several plastic bags around was no appealing prospect.

He resolved to leave the sketches behind. This was advisable anyway because he didn't want his mother or the Great-aunt to see them.

There was a number of other things he wouldn't really need any longer, for example the towels and the dressing gown. Also, a number of his socks had developed holes. On closer inspection, everything looked worn. He had far better garments in the trunk that stood at Great-aunt Lucrecia's.

Maybe here was a _solid_ reason for going back.

He longed for his dragon-hide boots. The Muggle trainers were pretty useless when it was freezing cold outside. He longed for his cashmere pullovers.

He recalled unwrapping the brown polo-neck pullover – the one that had become his favourite quickly after. That had been three years ago when his world had still been marvellously intact and functioning. His parents and he had celebrated the winter solstice in the customary way. There had been a sea of candles on the table – one for each ancestor known by name. There had been all the traditional dishes, and his mother had read to them passages from _Nature's Nobility_. Afterwards, Draco had opened his presents – there had been three pairs of high-shafted boots, a score of silken shirts embroidered with snakes or Hebridean Blacks, several books including an illegally printed copy of _The Sempiternity__ of Dark Magic_, a broomstick servicing kit, and an expensive, emerald-studded pocket watch with plenty of magical features.

He needed a gift for his mother.

... 

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 


	13. Part 13

36. Truffles and Worries

He took one last stroll around the city. After several random detours, he reached the pedestrian precinct. The area had changed – two long rows of wooden market stalls had been erected. Fir trees in huge flowerpots and other festive decorations abounded. Countless signs in shop windows reminded people to buy appropriate presents or sufficient provisions. Muggles seemed to set great store by proper preparation for celebrating the winter solstice. At least, that was what Draco assumed. Actual references to Yule were seldom made.

He went to the confectioner's. Even though it was a Muggle shop, it looked impressive. Alluring smells wafted out as often as somebody opened the door. In the elegantly decorated shop window, there was a display of truffles.

Belgian truffles were his mother's favourite treat. Except for the last one, there had never been a Yule celebration without at least one silver tray of Poirot's Assorted Truffles.

He went in and inquired whether the truffles sold here were imported from Belgium. Doing so, he evidently put his foot right in it.

A shop assistant clad in a close-fitting, black dress and a frilly, white apron lectured him in a rather miffed manner, "They are _homemade_, young man. That means they are made here in the house. The recipe has been in the family for more than one-hundred and twenty years."

He bought one truffle of each flavour. Since they weren't Belgian in origin, he ought to determine their quality before he made a larger purchase.

To be away from all the hustle and bustle in general and in particular from the mixed smells of roast chicken, smoked eels, pancakes, and hot alcoholic drinks lingering between the market stalls, he strolled over to the little park near the citadel. There, he tried the truffles one by one.

They were delicious. He decided _I__rish Cream_ and _Dark Stem Ginger_ were the flavours best suited to please his mother. After careful consideration, he also chose _Port and Raisin_ because it seemed a delectable novelty to him.

An hour later, he was back in the shop in order to buy seventeen truffles of each of the selected flavours.

The shop assistant reacted even frostier than at their first encounter. She glared at him as if he was a twig short of a broom.

"That's fifty-one," she snapped. "Are you aware of the price?"

He glared back. What did the silly cow think – that he couldn't calculate, or that he couldn't pay? He hadn't felt all that tranquil lately, and a stupid, uncooperative Muggle was exactly what he didn't need right now.

Instead of answering, he put five up-to-date, mauve-purple pound notes on the counter.

"What are you up to? Do you want to impress your girlfriend?" the Muggle asked, glancing at the money. "Well, I hope she's worth it."

He took a deep breath. It failed to calm him.

"The truffles are for my mother," he said angrily. He really didn't see why he should owe her explanations. "I'd appreciate it if you stopped arguing and did your job."

She mumbled something unintelligible, but started collecting truffles into a large box padded with what looked like silk.

After a little while, she asked, "Does your mother want them gift-wrapped?"

The question gave him a start. How could he have forgotten? Obviously, he had a knack for overlooking minor details. His negligence had spoilt his efforts more often than not, and here he went again: Where would he find acceptable wrapping parchment in a Muggle area, and at short notice, no less?

"Well?" the shop assistant said, sounding impatient.

She had produced a silvery sheet from under the counter. The stuff rustled softly. It couldn't possibly be paper, and Draco had never seen plastic look that way. The material was smooth and flexible, and it was actually not just silver in colour but glittered simultaneously in every colour of the rainbow. The effect was quite dazzling.

"Yes, sure," he said softly, his eyes still on the mysterious material.

She wrapped the box with surprising skill and swiftness. She added a white, velvety bow before she put the shimmering parcel into a manila bag, which she then handed to him along with some small change.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

He thanked her with accentuated politeness and left.

Darkness was about to fall when he stepped out of the shop. The neighbourhood was already lit with thousands and thousands of tiny lights. They sat on the fir trees and framed market stalls as well as shop windows and doors.

The prospect of never coming here again suddenly bothered him. He couldn't tell why. Considering how this city had appalled him at first, he couldn't explain why he was now hesitant to leave.

Trethwyn he had left in a rush, and the truth was that he did miss the sight of the ragged cliffs and the smell of thyme and boxwood drifting in through the window. He missed swimming and strolling down the beach barefooted. Well, it was December and he wouldn't be able to enjoy such things even if he were there. But he liked thinking back.

He hadn't been to many places besides Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley or Hogsmeade. Some ten years ago, he had nagged his parents into visiting Stonehenge – it was practically at their doorstep. However, the site had been an utter disappointment. The magic had faded completely over the millennia, and there had been nothing but a meaningless jumble of stones. In addition, the place had been teeming with Muggles.

Naturally, the place here was teeming with Muggles as well. But he was able to shrug that off. There were worse things in the world than Muggles.

He dallied in the pedestrian precinct until the merchants closed their shops and market stalls, and the better part of the lights went out.

When he finally returned to Hind Green Close, all windows in the house in were dark. As apparently everybody had already gone to bed, Draco took care to make as little noise as possible.

... 

He didn't sleep much. Lissy had not yet come, and the soft, whispering voice at the back of his mind insisted this was a _portent_. The louder voice demanded to leave as planned because any further delay would surely result in being late for Runcorn's Yule dinner. He had to be there; he owed that much to his mother.

The next morning, the breakfast room was cold and empty. Plates, cups, and glasses sat neatly stacked in their usual places. But there was no food except a single cardboard box of orange juice.

He rang the bell, but the landlady didn't appear.

He had no idea where she might have gone. He had never bothered to find out how she spent her days apart from making breakfast for the lodgers and, occasionally, doing their laundry.

He poured himself a glass of juice and then another one. The only other edible stuff around was the cornflakes in their big, bottle-like glass thing. He wasn't particularly fond of cornflakes, and eating them with orange juice instead of milk would hardly be an improvement.

Far worse than having no breakfast was having no guide. Lissy still hadn't come.

An older and more practised owl than her would find him on a Muggle train as easily as anywhere else. But Lissy? He could only hope the young screech owl would meet him somewhere on his way to Runcorn's because his chances of finding the cottage without her help were small.

He felt more uneasy than ever about embarking on that journey. As so often, his means were no match for the task.

... 

37. Train Ride

The landlady was nowhere to be found. It was a strange repetition of not being able to find Mr Penwith. Again, he wrote a note on the back of a sketch. This time, he put it on the desk in his room. She would find it sometime.

Three minutes later, he was faced with yet another problem: Where should he leave the keys? Putting them somewhere inside the house – in the breakfast room perhaps – meant he couldn't lock the front door, and once he'd locked that door he could not put the keys back in anymore.

But it was too late to bother with such conundrums. If he wanted to arrive in time, he had to catch a train before noon. Maybe he could figure out how the Muggle mail service worked and send the keys back.

... 

The next trouble was an altered train schedule. Due to the holidays, it had been thinned out considerably. He left as planned, but the train only went to some neighbouring city. There, he had to wait for hours. The only positive aspect about the stop was having time for a decent lunch.

He grew more and more restless. By the time he finally boarded an eastbound train, he was in a dangerous mental state. Equally angry as scared, he was ready to blow up at the slightest disturbance. He hadn't felt like this in quite a while. In their younger days, Ronald Weasley, the obnoxious prat, used to evoke that sort of emotional turmoil in him. Where it stemmed from now, Draco couldn't tell.

Despite his explosive mood, the ride went well. When he left the train at the station where he had started his journey nearly seven months ago, it was long after nightfall. However, the stars were bright in the cloudless sky, and he could navigate with the help of the constellations. After all the mishaps throughout the day, that was a stroke of luck.

He walked briskly. There were three reasons to hurry. Firstly, it was getting late. Secondly, it was cold. The sharp wind coming from the northeast stung his face. The parka jacket he wore had a hood, and he could bury his gloveless hands in the deep pockets, but the trainers and thin trousers were no protection against the low temperature.

And thirdly, the exercise calmed him enough to think coherent thoughts. He needed to concentrate if he was ever going to find his way through the night on his own.

He tried to recall the details of his hasty departure half a year earlier. The sun rising behind him was the most distinct memory. The cottage was situated approximately two miles north to the broader lane, and he knew that a narrow path led there. Everything else was fuzzy recollections of single trees or little copses that he would hardly recognise again even if they were lush and green as they had been. There was bare, moonlit soil now where there had been fields of rapeseed and unripe barley.

After two hours of walking eastward – the moon was already about to set – he thought that he must be getting near the spot where the narrow, hedged-in path to Lucrecia Runcorn's cottage branched off the main lane. He carefully inspected all hedge-like thickets of bushes and small trees to his left. A few times, he walked north for several hundred yards, but he always ended up in places that clearly belonged to Muggles – sheds and barns or assemblies of exceptionally bizarre vehicles.

He had no choice but to continue. He marched on, hoping Lissy would finally show up. Maybe his mother had told the owl to wait for him in the exact place from where the small footpath led northward. That would make sense, wouldn't it?

The longer he walked, however, the more grew his fear that he might have missed the correct path already. The suspicion became cruel certainty the moment he reached a broad road that was covered with asphalt. He had never been at that spot before.

As he stood there in the biting cold, pondering his non-existent options, it suddenly struck him that using an owl as guide might well be going beyond the limit set by the _Code of Conduct_. The passage read, _The convict may employ owls for carrying messages_. There was no word about employing the birds for any other purpose.

He tried to fight off the embarrassment he felt because of having asked his mother to break rules for him. He was such an idiot!

... 

He went westward, meticulously scanning the area to his right. He was resolved to try out even paths that looked like deer trails provided they were leading in a roughly northern direction.

He was tired, but he trudged on. The wind, being too lazy to go around, blew right through him. He knew an effective wind-breaking charm. He knew spells to keep himself warm in icy winter nights. He had learned how to Apparate with promptness and precision. And what good did all that knowledge do him now?

At least, he didn't need a bloody Point-Me spell to tell the compass points. The twisting and turning of the lane couldn't faze him since the stars shone also for the disadvantaged who were deprived of a wand. The twinkling stars along with the planets told him that it was around four in the morning. He had come approximately a mile away from the asphalted road. If he continued at that pace, he might be back at the train station in a little more than a fortnight...

He wasn't going to give up he thought stubbornly. He repeated that thought at regular, two-minute intervals: He wasn't going to give up. His endeavours went wrong routinely, failing was what he did best, yes, but he was not yet ready to give up.

A small gap in the dried and crumpled vegetation caught his eye. There was no path but a tiny runlet that ended in the ditch beside the lane. The runlet was flanked by willows.

Maybe he shouldn't completely rule out the possibility that he had sprinted down a dried-out brook back in June...

The ditch was nearly two feet deep. As he stepped down into it, he noted a slightly lopsided signpost. The paint had faded, and he could barely make out the words, "Beware of Leeches" in the dim light of the stars. Being almost sure the sign hadn't been there an instant before, he stepped back. The sign vanished.

A warm, glorious wave of relief washed over him. Of course, Great-aunt Lucrecia would disguise the pathway to her home! Of course, she wouldn't content herself with putting up Muggle-Repelling Charms!

He had found the way to the cottage. For once, he hadn't failed...

He strode out with renewed energy. The willows soon were replaced with holly and deadly nightshade. He could already spot the cottage in the distance when a shadow swooped down on him. He cried out and flailed his arms as he believed for a split second that he was attacked.

There was no attacker, though, there was only Lissy, lying in a sad, little heap at his feet.

He knelt down and touched her. When she didn't peck him, he cautiously lifted her up. The bird looked dazed.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered. "I'm so sorry..."

She ruffled her feathers tentatively and made a noise that wasn't quite a hoot.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "Are you injured?"

The owl fidgeted a bit in his hands, and he noticed the letter fastened to her leg.

"For me?" he asked although that was obvious.

He let her sit on his shoulder while he unravelled the very carefully folded parchment. It contained a thin, golden necklace. It was finely wrought but had no pendant. Somewhat puzzled, he slipped it into a pocket and turned the parchment over in search for some explanation.

_Willowway Cottage; 4:35 a.m. on December 25th  
Draco,  
The owl returned a mere five minutes ago from delivering a letter to your father. I apologise for keeping you waiting.  
Mother_

"Did you see my father?" he asked softly.

The owl hooted.

"How is he?"

The owl left his shoulder and flew in wide loops and zigzags around him. He was no expert on owl communication, but from what he knew about it, the flight pattern meant something along the line of, _Don't worry_.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - 

Author's note:

Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.


	14. Part 14

38. Another Mistake

His mother was waiting at the back door. She pulled him into the house and – indicating with gestures to keep quiet – rushed him to her room.

"I am glad that worked smoothly," she said once the door was closed behind them. "Lucrecia is a very light sleeper."

"Good morning, Mother," he said, slightly taken aback by this kind of greeting.

"Good morning, Draco," she said, ushering him further into the overstuffed room. "My new owl is lamentably slow. I would have been surprised had she made it in time."

"Did Lissy bring a letter from Father?" he asked. "How is he?"

"The owl's name is _Lisboa_," his mother corrected him. "Considering the circumstances, your father is tolerably well. The Wizengamot decided not to re-instate the Dementor guards. Without doubt, Azkaban is still a dreadful place – the cells are draughty, food is scanty, and the inmates have to suffer the guards' unpredictable whims – but one doesn't have to fear for their life and sanity anymore."

After all the unrest he had gone through, this was good news. Indeed, it was an unexpected relief and a promising start for the day. Maybe things were going to be fine after all.

His mother glanced curiously at him.

"I would like to have the necklace back," she said.

Under his mother's intent gaze, he searched his pockets for the rather simple piece of jewellery.

"Here you are," he said, holding the little golden thing out to her. "Why did you send it to me in the first place?"

"Why?" she said, taking it. "Lucrecia has scores of magical safeguards around the house; any trespasser who comes within fifty yards sets the alarm off. She lent me the necklace so I can go for walks once in a while – it is enchanted to grant the bearer free passage."

"Enchanted?" he breathed. His mind whirling, he watched her clasping the delicate chain around her neck. Enchanted objects were prohibited by the _Code of Conduct_. He had slipped it into his pocket without thinking... his mother was wearing it! "Aren't you afraid anyone will notice?"

"Who should? Trust me, our sorry excuse for a minister and his underlings have other matters to attend to than a modest witch's jewellery. Even if they came snooping and saw it by chance, they wouldn't be any the wiser. It looks plain and inconspicuous enough. Why would they suspect anything?"

He swallowed his answer. Who was he to lecture his mother about prudence?

"Tell me," she continued, "what in Merlin's name is the garment _you_ are wearing?"

"Camouflage," he said with a quick-wittedness that surprised even him. His cheerful mood still lingered, and he was wonderfully wide awake despite the long, taxing day he'd had. "I must not draw attention."

"Well, I suppose," she said sternly. "Deprived of all magical means, one is forced to cross Muggle territory to get here."

"That's right," he said softly. Her demeanour had changed, and the way she scrutinised his apparel made him decidedly uncomfortable. To keep the conversation on a safe course, he said, "I wish you Good Yule, Mother."

"Thank you. Good Yule to you, too, Draco."

She was all formal politeness now, and he felt his cheeriness drain away. Her next question was not at all unexpected.

"Where have you been, Draco? Where have you been _for more than six months_?"

"I've brought you a present," he said, well knowing that it was too weak an attempt to change the topic. Nonetheless, he took the glittering parcel out and proffered it to his mother.

She accepted it, but with visible hesitation.

"What _is_ this?" she asked suspiciously, weighing it in her hand. "It seems much too light to be silver or another type of metal."

"Truffles," he said.

"From Belgium?" she asked. Neither her voice nor her posture betrayed surprise or excitement. "How did you get them?"

"No, not from Belgium," he admitted, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

She unwrapped the parcel and frowned.

Try them, he pleaded silently as she opened the lid. Try them, they're good.

She sniffed the truffles with caution and then tossed the box aside, disgusted.

"They're Muggle-made," she informed him. "Wherever you got them, they hoodwinked you. _Proper_ truffles have tiny runes carved into the surface, so you can tell the confectioner."

He didn't know what to reply. Disappointment – utter, thorough disappointment – clawed at his insides. Why, oh, why did everything he did go wrong?

"Draco?"

Then again, what had he expected? Buying Muggle sweets for his mother – what a preposterous idea! What a faux pas! He would have fared better to come here with empty hands.

All of a sudden, he longed to be back in his little hidey-hole, his little safe haven with a slanted wall, always warm and with plentiful food every morning. The place was hours and hours away – three hours of walking and another three or so of train ride. What on earth had possessed him to leave? He didn't know anymore.

"You are right," he said, bitterness lacing his voice. "I'm an idiot."

"I truly wonder whence your credulity comes. Father and I taught you to be constantly on the alert. Your enemies won't sleep, Draco. They will strike as soon as they spy a weakness."

She paused, and he knew this to be the moment where he was required to say, "Yes, Mother." Habit wasn't easy to overcome, and he didn't even try. But he was surprised to hear the unfamiliar note of defiance in his voice.

"At least you are back. But your behaviour is inexcusable. What demon got into you to disappear without a single word, to sneak away in the wee hours like a thief? Lucrecia contacted everybody we could possibly think of – the Parkinsons, Glenda Goyle, Mrs Nott, the Greengrasses, the Selwyns, even Blaise Zabini – he has his own flat now – and his mother, the parents of your other classmates, every old acquaintance who is not in Azkaban. Where on earth have you been?"

It wasn't the telling-off in general; it was the list of names that made him want to refuse.

"I cannot answer that question, Mother," he said, putting every effort into sounding resolute. The outcome wasn't too bad. Even so, he needed all the strength he could muster to keep himself from cringing under her appraising look.

"It is a girl? Am I right?"

He gasped.

"I have been suspecting a secret romance for some time now. There seems no other explanation than that some girl fancies you enough to grant you shelter. Who is she?"

"Mother, no-"

"Who is she?" she demanded, advancing one step. "Answer me!"

He was at a loss. Lying in order to gain an advantage was perfectly appropriate behaviour as he had been taught by the very woman standing before him. Lying to _her_, however, had always been exempt from this rule.

"Not a pure-blood, I suppose," she went on when he didn't open his mouth. "It's a disappointment, but not exactly a surprise. Your chances of making a respectable pure-blood marriage have dwindled down further ever since one of the Weasley progeny found it necessary to natter in the _Prophet_ about your unfortunate encounter with that Swiss Auror-"

"Stop that, Mother, please..."

"You will have to face the truth, Draco. Wishful thinking will not improve matters."

"What makes you so convinced there is a girl?" he asked, wondering why she accused him of wishful thinking.

"Who else would house you? You have no money and a reputation that is damaged almost beyond repair, especially ever since the _Daily Prophet_ printed that defamatory article. I cannot imagine anyone taking you in except a witch who is completely besotted with you. If she is a half-blood and the wizarding part of her ancestry _is_ respectable, there might be a way, Draco." A hint of hope coloured her voice. "Even Lucrecia will have to acknowledge reality in the end."

He shook his head. No-one in this family, him included, seemed to be particularly good at acknowledging reality. He also saw full well how futile any argument would be. He was not used to opposing his mother; she was not used to listening.

He decided to give her what she wanted to hear.

"Such a girl, if she existed, would be the solution to a number of problems," he said.

She advanced another half-step, appraising him.

"I hope your reluctance to reveal a name is due to misunderstood chivalry."

"Chivalry, yes," he said, trying to humour her. If she was happy with the illusion that he had a girlfriend, he wasn't going to destroy it.

"Draco, tell me you are not with some forty-five-year-old, married witch who pays the rent for your lodgings in exchange for... well, _certain favours_..." she trailed off.

He stared at her, taking in her aristocratic features, her immaculate attire, and her long, blond hair that was flawlessly done despite the early hour. He stared at her, allowing himself the time necessary to catalogue the implications of her words. Providing sexual services in exchange for payment – was that the picture of him she harboured in her heart of hearts?

There was the tiniest of snorts before she said, "Maybe it is just as well that you do not speak in your defence. It grieves me to admit it, but it will seem Lucrecia was right when she observed that you had gone somewhat out of hand."

"Mother, please, I haven't been with-"

"Be quiet," she cut across him. "Since you are apparently unable to bring honour to the family, I'll expect you to refrain at least from bringing further disgrace to our name!"

"Mother please, there is no forty-five-year-old witch! What _are_ you talking about?"

"Very well," she said. There wasn't the smallest trace of relief in her voice.

What did she expect him to say?

What did she expect him to do?

What kind of person did she expect him to be?

Whatever it was, he wouldn't be able to live up to it. He had never felt this as clearly as he did at this moment.

"Mother, I cannot be the perfect son you wish to have," he said with more firmness than he had thought possible. "Why can't you accept me the way I am?"

... 

39. Pride is for Those Who Can Afford It

"You are already more self-indulgent than can be tolerated," his mother said sternly. "I have to be reasonable."

"Isn't it reasonable when I acknowledge my limitations?"

"Do not give me such nonsense. Of course, it will be hard work to rebuild not only our fortune, but also our reputation as a notable family. And I expect you to do your share instead of seeking the easy way out."

He shook his head. If there was any way at all to get out of this mess, it certainly wasn't an easy one.

"I'm afraid I cannot live up to your expectations, Mother. I never did, and I never will. I _am_ weak. I am a second rate wizard even when I do hold a wand. _That_ is the truth and no wishful thinking will change it. I have fooled myself for years into believing otherwise, and worse, I have fooled myself into believing others would be fooled into believing otherwise. I'm not going back on that track, no matter what."

The expression on her face became almost sympathetic.

"You must not allow the unfair treatment we have suffered to bring you down. I am sure Shacklebolt's mob would be jubilant could they see you that downcast." She spoke slowly and with the air of somebody explaining a complex subject to a small child. "Draco, hold your head high. We are pure-bloods of the noblest descent! We are not subdued so easily. We will be back. It may take time, but we _will be back_."

Back where? Back to where he had to cope with the assaults of his enemies and the ridicule from his "friends"? Back to where he was bound to meet disdain wherever he would look?

"I'm glad it's over, Mother. I do not want to be back."

She inhaled sharply. "That attitude is not acceptable."

He felt wretched. He was a constant disappointment to her, he had been one, he was one, and he always would be one, no matter how hard he tried.

"Mother... I'm not cut out for fighting." He'd only lose, and each time would make things worse – for him _and_ for her. "Please, let me stop-"

"Don't be absurd, Draco. Of course, fights are out of the question under the circumstances. Now is a time for careful planning, for getting in touch again with old acquaintances, especially ones that may prove themselves useful in the future, and for establishing new connections wherever possible. The Selwyns will be here tonight. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with their daughters, Ignavia and Inutilia."

He wasn't particularly good in this area, either. His only real talent was to muck things up. She'd probably have a much better chance of gaining her desired status and repute without him slowing her down. He didn't know what he wanted anyway, except being left alone for a while longer.

"Give me at least some more time to rally," he pleaded.

"That might be a good idea indeed," she said. "Skip breakfast. I will bring a snack to your room, and you will change into clothes that are fit to be seen by Lucrecia. I'll inform her later that you will be here for lunch."

His heartbeat accelerated to twice its normal rate. He felt hot and also slightly dizzy. He knew he wasn't going to stay for lunch. Nor would he stay for breakfast, either. All at once, he saw with a shocking clarity that he couldn't stay at all. He reached for the rucksack that lay by his feet.

"I don't feel like meeting Great-aunt Lucrecia," he said, retreating a step. His heart was hammering.

"I wish you had at least a modicum of Black in you," she said, shaking her head to cover her exasperation.

The irony calmed him a little. For the most part of his life, any statement conveying even by mere implication that he was taking after his father would have made him proud and happy. And here he stood, his heart's dearest desire held against him.

Following a sudden impulse, he asked, "Do you remember my paternal grandfather?"

"Abraxas? Well, yes," she said impatiently. "What of him?"

"What kind of person was he?"

"He was eccentric."

Despite the situation – or, perhaps, because of it – he noted the undertone.

"Eccentric as in 'slightly unhinged but amiable old fellow'?" he inquired.

"Eccentric as in 'crazy old fool'," she retorted. "Why are you asking questions about Abraxas Malfoy?"

"Because you're the only one around who can answer them. I was very young when he died," he said. He had never heard a satisfying account of his grandfather's death, not till this day. "Where did he catch dragon pox?"

"Anywhere. How should I know? He had a habit of sneaking away, and he never deemed it necessary to inform your father or me as to where he went. Sometimes he was back within an hour; sometimes he was gone for days. His antics were a constant source of irritation for us, especially for your father." She paused and inclined her head as if listening intently.

He strained his ears but heard nothing.

"Enough of this," she said quietly. "You have more important things to think about."

"I think knowing about my ancestry is important for me," he said with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. He needed answers; he was sick of stumbling through his life like a blindfolded moron.

"Abraxas is ancestry you could do very well without," she said sourly.

He was stunned.

"Why?" he managed.

"Draco, I cannot help but wonder whence your sudden interest in Abraxas Malfoy comes, and I strongly advise you to refrain from further enquiries concerning him. If you are looking for a new role model, I'll suggest you consider my fath-"

A door clapped.

Startled, he tightened the grip on his rucksack.

"Compose yourself," his mother hissed. "And take that offensive jacket off. I will stall her for a moment."

No, he thought. Clutching his rucksack to his body, he wheeled round and made for the window. He had it open by the time Lucrecia Runcorn called, "Narcissa, are you already up and about?"

The owl, that had sat in the elm tree, swooped in just as his mother confirmed her being out of bed.

Swinging the rucksack onto his back, Draco knocked the candle-holder off the bedside table. The flame went out as it fell, but it hit the floor with a clatter loud enough to be heard in the hall outside. His mother's urgent whispers were drowned out by Lissy's bewildered hooting.

"Whom are you talking to?" the Great-aunt asked sharply. She seemed nearer now.

"Oh... the owl is back," his mother answered while he climbed through the window. "Draco sent a gift."

"Did he indeed? He's such a _fine_ and _thoughtful_ son..." the Great-aunt scoffed. "Are you decent, Narcissa?"

"Not quite yet. Just a second!" his mother said loudly in the direction of the door. She turned and rushed towards the window; he was already outside.

"Draco, no-"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to disappoint you," he said desperately. "But I can't stay... Forgive me..."

An angry complaint about being kept waiting came from the door.

He ducked out of sight, catching one last glimpse of his mother's stern face.

"Draco, come back!" Her whisper was barely audible.

"Do not worry," he told the closing window. "I'll be fine..."

Hoping against hope that the trellis was sturdy enough, he climbed down.

And then, he ran.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

to be continued...

... 

Author's note:

Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.


	15. Part 15

40. Frenzy

Lucrecia Runcorn could Apparate.

Lucrecia Runcorn had a wand.

If she caught him, he'd be done for. She could stun him. She could bind him. She could drag him back to her house. She could confine him magically to the cottage, to his room, to his bed. Once she decided to imprison him and to let him not go before he agreed to marry the stupidest, ugliest spinster in Britain, there'd be no stopping her. His mother wouldn't be able to do anything for him aside from wringing her hands and begging and pleading.

Fear propelled him down the hedged-in lane. The icy air stung his lungs. It was only a matter of time before Runcorn, the malicious old bat, would figure out that he had brought the truffles in person. He ran on as fast as his body would let him, covering the two miles to the broader lane in less than ten minutes. He was still dreadfully slow compared to someone who could cross this distance with the help of magic and, therefore, in a fraction of a second.

Reaching the broader lane, he turned eastward as instinct told him he mustn't rush to his hideout directly. The little room with a slanted wall was all he had. Losing his refuge would be the end of him. He had never truly understood his situation before – he was defenceless in a world where everybody above the age of eleven wielded a wand.

It was not yet dawn, but somebody might see him, and Runcorn had every means to make Muggles – helpless as they were – talk. He raced on. His lungs hurt so badly he could barely draw breath. The pain drove tears to his eyes. After another five hundred yards, he had to retch. Crouching in the ditch that ran alongside the lane, he brought up a bit of bitter slime from his empty stomach.

He struggled back to the lane, still feeling sick, but he had no time to waste.

When he reached the asphalt road, he couldn't run anymore. Panting, he stumbled on.

A Muggle car, a really large one, overtook him. Draco took it as a sign of his hysteria that he welcomed its presence. The big car slowed and rolled to a halt only a few yards ahead of him. About three feet above the ground, a door opened, and the driver called, "Want a ride, partner?"

Draco's hammering heart lurched for a moment.

All at once, his brain was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. However, the one screaming that desperate situations justified desperate measures trounced all the others. He chose the ghastly Muggle vehicle over Lucrecia Runcorn's wrath.

... 

"Where to this early in the morning?" the driver asked. He was almost shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the huge car.

"London," Draco said. It was the only name that came to his mind.

The driver said he wasn't going there today but he would drop him off in some town or other. Draco didn't really listen; he was preoccupied with not being sick again. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, but the car swerved and juddered and the air in the tiny cabin reeked of something similar to lamp oil.

The driver grabbed a little package that lay next to the front window and held it out to Draco.

"Ciggy?" he asked.

"No!" Draco cried out. Utterly appalled, he looked away from the white sticks with yellow ends that protruded from the package.

"Wise of you," the driver observed, flipping the package back to its previous place. "You look a bit pallid. Something wrong?"

"I... didn't get much sleep last night."

"Been on a binge, eh?"

Why was it that he felt completely at sea every time a Muggle tried to strike up an informal conversation? He muddled through moderately well as long the interaction followed certain rules like, for instance, when he was buying something at a regular shop. But everything that went beyond turned eventually into a guessing game.

"I paid my mother a visit," he said at last. "Somehow, things went disastrous."

"Tell me about it!" the driver groaned. "As soon as I set foot in _my_ mother's kitchen, she starts nagging: When will you get married? You're already thirty-five, mind you, and I'm turning sixty next year. I want to see grandchildren while I'm still alive..."

"Don't you want children?" Draco asked – not because he was interested, but to keep the man talking. The more the Muggle babbled the less Draco would have to say.

The strategy worked: by the time they separated, Draco knew the history of the man's family back to the times of Hengist – or he would have known if he had cared to listen.

"Thank you," Draco said, jumping down onto the pavement.

"Any time." The driver grinned and waved.

Draco raised his arm for a moment. He was grateful the man had helped him to get away. Yet, at the same time, he silently vowed not to climb into such a vehicle ever again.

... 

He searched for a train station. All the while, the slightest noise or movement made him look back over his shoulder. He kept telling himself that Runcorn's chances of discovering him here were one to a million – he performed no magic, he had nothing magical about him that could be detected, and he had never been in this town before so there was no reason for her to conclude he'd prefer it to others. But all the rational arguments didn't help. He couldn't stop himself from checking every ten seconds whether she had crept up behind him.

He found the train station to learn that, due to the holidays, only two trains were going in a roughly southwestern direction. One had left already, the other one was scheduled for three in the afternoon.

There was a pub. It was a dingy, dimly-lit place, but it was warm. He ordered tea and breakfast; both were horrible. Without his months of experience with Muggle cuisine, he would have fallen right in with his mother's opinion of Muggle food being unwholesome, if not downright poisonous. He was almost sure now that she would feed the truffles to the owl.

... 

He had to change trains after only a few miles. Unfortunately, the second one didn't take him very far, either. He asked a Muggle in uniform who told him the next train would leave the following morning at five.

That was just his luck – he was stuck at a tiny and draughty station for a whole night. The place was run down; the toilets looked as if some idiot had cast a _Reurgitatus_ on them. He searched for an inn to stay at but couldn't find one.

In the end, he opted for walking. Moving was better than having to wait around in the biting cold. And cold he was. His fur hat, the fur-lined cloak, long-shafted boots, and comfortable pullovers still lay in his trunk. Oh yes, this journey was going to make a fine new entry in the already long list of his failings...

Following the tracks, he plodded through the falling snow. He didn't make much progress, but he was too tired to care. The night wore on slowly – as slowly as he slogged along the iron rails.

... 

He had been hearing the noise for more than a minute. It grew steadily louder. The throbbing of the ground beneath his feet became more and more intense, but his brain took its time to catch on. He jumped aside in what probably was the last second. The train sped past him and disappeared into the darkness.

Needless to say, when he finally reached the station, the train had gone long ago. Yet again, he had to wait, and this time he slumped down on the nearest bench.

After a while he got up and trudged over to an open window where food was sold. He bought himself two plastic cups of black coffee. The hot, bitter brew revived him enough to struggle through the rest of the journey.

Eventually, he did arrive at Hind Green Close. _How_ he had made it there, he couldn't tell.

He unlocked the door, congratulating himself on having kept the keys. There was silence inside the house. Perhaps it was late. He wasn't sure as to what time of day it was. He wasn't even too sure how many days he had been away.

He dragged himself up to the converted attic. In his room, he slipped off the rucksack and the parka and let them lie where they fell on the floor. With one last effort, he got rid of the soggy trainers and the trousers. Then he collapsed onto his bed.

... 

41. Crash

He woke with a headache. He was thirsty. His stomach churned.

The hands of the Muggle clock on the wall showed 6 o'clock.

He got up and shuffled to the window. A glance at the stars told him it was six in the morning. Breakfast would be soon.

He set the heating device to the highest level because he felt cold.

The note he had left for the landlady lay on the desk, untouched. He crumpled it profusely and dropped it into the waste-parchment basked.

He picked the trousers up from the floor. They were caked in dried mud for the first five inches above the seam. The trainers didn't look any better. He didn't recall where and when he had got that dirty. He deposited the trousers in the laundry basket assigned to him. After a moment's hesitation, he put all other clothes he had worn during the awful journey there as well.

He took a shower, changed into clean clothing, and went downstairs for breakfast.

The breakfast room was as cold and empty as it had been a few days earlier. The box of orange juice sat precisely where he had left it. Its contents gave off an unpleasant smell.

He rung the bell two times, but it was to no avail.

Sighing, he filled a bowl with cornflakes. He munched a few but realised that he really needed some liquid to wash them down. He could think of nothing other than water from the tap.

He went back upstairs, and his legs hurt as he did so. The headache had gone worse. He poured water over the cornflakes. The result was a pap that tasted slightly of cardboard, if of anything at all.

He ate nonetheless and downed a whole bowl of water afterwards. Going to the bathroom in order to fetch that water was a strenuous trip. His limbs protested every step.

He put the empty bowl gingerly on the bedside table and lowered himself onto the bed. Cautiously, he stretched out. Even that hurt.

He felt cold. The covers seemed too thin. Hadn't he turned the heating up?

He attempted to curl up for comfort, but the movement instantaneously caused him more pain.

What was wrong?

His mouth felt dry. Hadn't he just drunk?

There was a flash of memory of him sitting in wintry weather on a bench, tasting truffles. They had been pretty good, hadn't they?

... 

He was flying a broomstick. The landscape was streaking away in a steady pace deep down below him. Or perhaps it lay not so deep down since he could make out a lot of details. There were multicoloured peacocks strutting around, and there were also irises of any colour of the rainbow. The birds paled and the flowers bloated as he picked up speed. Both plants and animals exploded into vibrant sparks that whizzed past him. He was going fast now, really fast. The wind made rushing sounds in his ears. The landscape became slightly blurred, the details indiscernible. It was fun to race a broomstick at such a low altitude. He heard people scream at him, but he didn't understand a word. He was going too fast. The onlookers nevertheless kept screaming; perhaps they were cheering him on. They got wilder the faster he flew. It was kind of funny, was it not? There was no Quidditch pitch beneath, though. In fact, he had no idea where he was or where to he was heading. He only knew that he had descended too low – he was flying straight through a crowd. He didn't recognise anybody. The faces were no more than blurs, flying by at dizzying speed. People ducked and ran for cover. It was only then that he discovered that the broom had no handle. His hands were holding fast to empty air. That scared him; such a thing was unheard off. He couldn't steer; he narrowly missed the heads of two people dressed in Gryffindor robes. They got caught in the violent suction caused by the awfully high velocity, and stumbled, and tripped, and fell, and lay sprawled across the lawn. In sudden panic, he willed the broom upwards. It rose indeed. Could he steer by mere willpower? Obviously, he couldn't – there was a huge wall straight ahead of him, but the broom wouldn't swerve no matter how desperately he wished it to do so. There was no brake either. The wall grew in size and sprouted something that looked like a Muggle-made, over-large advertisement, which featured an old, bearded wizard with sparkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles. _A_ _time_ _will_ _come_ _when_ _you_ _have_ _to_ _make_ _a_ _choice_ _between_ _what_ _is_ _righ__t_, _a__nd_ _what_ _is_ _easy_ – the words flashed on and off in the placard, and Draco kept racing towards them at ever-increasing speed. Terror gripped him – he couldn't steer, he couldn't slow down, there was no avoiding this massive wall. He jumped off the broom at the very last second, hoping against hope the fall wouldn't be too hard. The sudden movement caused the broom to change direction. Instead of crashing headlong into the wall, he scraped along its surface. He felt his skin break; the scratches seemed to be all over his body. He didn't fall, though. His robes had become entangled in the tail twigs of the broom. And the bloody thing kept going. It even accelerated. He couldn't see where he was dragged to; he was blinded with pain. He kept bumping into things – treetops, lampposts, or, perhaps, not things at all but people. He couldn't tell. There was screaming again. People screamed his name. He wished they wouldn't. It hurt. Everything hurt – his limps, his chest, his head.

"Mr Malfoy?"

Everything hurt. There was agonising pain in his legs and arms, he hardly could breathe – he must have broken every bone in his body. Worst of all was the fierce, pounding pain in his head. It just fell short of a Cruciatus. He lay on something tolerably soft, though. Something had broken his fall...

"Mr Malfoy?"

He opened his mouth to tell them to shut up. All he got out was an inarticulate croak.

"Mr Malfoy, are you awake?"

He made the effort of opening his eyes.

In the glaring light, there stood the landlady.

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Author's notes:

(1) Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.

(2) Waterysilver created another great illustration for this story. If you wish to view it, please go to deviantart (dot) com and search for waterysilver or "Burning the Past – Exile".


	16. Part 16

42. Catharsis

The landlady drifted in and out of focus.

She wrapped wet towels around his legs. He couldn't muster the strength to object.

She made him swallow white pebbles, claiming they would relieve fevers. Eating pebbles seemed a downright crazy, Mugglish idea. Yet again, he couldn't bring himself to protest. Besides, Bezoars were some kind of pebble, too...

Bezoars...

He wasn't poisoned, was he? He had eaten that foul food... When had that been? How slowly did Muggle poison work?

Please not...

He was seized by shivering fits. He couldn't remember ever feeling as ill as he did now. He couldn't remember to have ever felt as ill as he did now. At the first sign of a cold, you took a dose of Hipworth's Pepperup Potion. Maybe another one the next day if you had a bad cold. What the landlady served him was no potion but a primitive infusion of herbs.

When he awoke from a fitful sleep, she was there again. She had him eat more pebbles and commanded him to sleep until she would return. He didn't argue.

...

She did return at some point and brought him breakfast: porridge and fruit salad. He ignored the food and reached for the cup of hot infusion. He made out anise, thyme, fennel, and ribwort. Being able to identify the ingredients reassured him – his brain still worked.

"Do you feel a bit better?" she asked when he put down the cup.

"No, but thanks for asking," he said hoarsely. All his muscles ached, the headache wasn't gone, and his shirt was wet with sweat and clung to his body.

"You've got a full-blown flu," she told him. "Why are you here, anyway? Didn't you say something about seeing your parents?"

He sighed. Why had she to remind him? He already felt miserable enough.

"I'd rather you didn't ask."

She said nothing to this, but he thought the expression on her face was somewhat sympathetic. She offered him another one of the white, pebble-like things.

He inspected it carefully. It looked definitely fashioned and man-made.

"What exactly _is_ this?" he asked.

"It's just Paracetamol," she said. "There is no direct cure for flu. You can relieve the fever, but apart from that, you'll have to sleep it off."

Sleep sounded like a good idea.

...

She brought him some beef tea – it tasted chiefly of lovage – for lunch and a small bowl of stew for dinner. He ate little. Eating was a real effort, and he wasn't hungry anyway. Going to the loo was a big effort, too. It was as exhausting as two hours of jogging. These difficulties notwithstanding, the landlady insisted that he drank plenty of her herbal infusion. She took care that there was always a bottle of it on his bedside table. That bottle was special: It was made of plastic, had a nifty screw top that could be used as a drinking vessel, and kept the liquid hot for hours.

The landlady brought him breakfast again the next morning. Additionally, she brought a plastic box that contained two sandwiches, which he was to eat for lunch.

She launched into a lengthy speech about letting rooms being less profitable than initially assumed and mortgages that needed amortising.

He didn't quite grasp the import of all this but nodded for the sake of politeness.

"That's why I took up a part-time job at the tax consultant's over in Queens Street," she ended her discourse. "I'll be back by late afternoon."

...

Several days went by.

He slept more in twenty-four hours than he usually did in half a week.

Only once, he woke in the middle of the night, and that was due to the racket going on outside. The sky was full of fireworks. So there was something else Muggles could imitate. He wasn't too impressed and went back to bed.

The following morning, the tray holding his breakfast sat on the desk. The lunch box and the bottle-that-wondrously-kept-liquids-hot stood next to it. A card that featured a horseshoe surrounded by four-leaf clover and a printing of "Happy New Year" was propped up against the bottle. The porridge had gone cold.

He almost couldn't believe he had slept in, but it was indeed nearly eight o'clock.

He sat down and ate the fruit salad and a small helping of cream cake. He did feel better although not yet well. The fever had subsided, but the physical weakness still prevented him from staying up for longer than about an hour.

However, he could focus for the first time in days, and he used the regained ability to recapture the details of his journey.

He soon decided that the technical trivia – where and how often he had changed trains, whether the temperature had been below freezing or just above – didn't matter much. What mattered was the conclusion: for the time being, he could not pay another visit at Runcorn's cottage. Venturing back into the wizarding world before he was allowed to use a wand again would be exceedingly reckless. He had no defences whatsoever against the ill will of anyone he might meet – from Lucrecia Runcorn to bloody Potter, from former classmates to the current Minister. If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit his powers had always been limited. It was exactly as he had told his mother – he was mediocre. He was neither brilliant nor a complete numbskull, just a young run-of-the-mill wizard. That was the truth, and he had to face it.

What was worse, he had no-one he could rely on. There were neither friends nor relatives who would stand up for him. His mother might try, but she was every bit as helpless as he was. There was nothing left of what once had been or, at any rate, what once had looked as if it were grand and imposing. For most of his life, both his weapon and his shield had been starting sentences with, "My father will..." This very obviously didn't work anymore and it never would again.

So if he couldn't go back to wizarding Britain before the remaining four years and five months of his probation were up, what options did he have?

He could stay here. That seemed the simplest and also the most sensible course of action. Yes, he would stay here, provided he could afford it.

He got up and took the rucksack down from the wardrobe. The landlady must have put it there because he dimly remembered dropping it to the floor. A quick glance around told him that she had tided up – everything, including his trainers, was clean. A stack of neatly folded laundry was placed on the easy chair.

He sat down at the desk and counted his grandfather's money. He was astonished when he wrote the final figure down on a fresh sheet of paper.

_This is for you, Draco, for a rainy day... Don't tell anybody, but remember. A time might come when you'll need it_.

Had Abraxas Malfoy been a seer? What had compelled him to collect Muggle money? And where had he acquired so much of it?

And what, exactly, had his mother implied by saying Grandfather Abraxas was an ancestor he could do very well without? Considering that the essential bit of information often went unspoken with his mother, her statement was extremely intriguing.

To his surprise, he found her statement also annoying. The way things were, his late grandfather's incredible foresight combined with his goodwill towards him, Draco, was all that prevented him from leading the kind of life his mother envisioned for him. There was probably a subtle difference between sleeping with a hypothetical forty-five-year old witch in exchange for money that paid the rent and sleeping with Araminta Bulstrode in exchange for a large dowry, but he didn't feel like delving into that subject.

Instead, he did a rough estimation of his expenses during the past months, calculated his spending per day, and did on this basis a prognosis for the future.

If he maintained his current rate of spending, the money would well last him for the entire time of his probation. It would last even longer if he refrained from wasting it on confections nobody would ever eat.

...

43. A New Set of Questions

He put the money back at its old place at the bottom of the wardrobe while an entirely new set of questions occupied his mind.

Shouldn't he share this supply with his mother? Shouldn't he invite her here?

Taking the way she had reacted to the truffles as an indication, she would probably rather give up the use of her left arm than live in a Muggle environment.

But wasn't it his duty as a son to support her in times of hardship?

The simplest thing might be to send her one half of the money the next time Lissy came here. Of course, he would have to add a letter in which he explained to his mother how she was to go about changing the old banknotes into valid ones.

However, the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that she would throw the 'filthy Muggle junk' right away into the fireplace. Maybe he should send the letter first. He could describe everything in detail, and she would have time to warm to the idea of using Muggle money.

Then again, would she ever warm to such an idea? He couldn't imagine it.

From what he had seen, she wasn't intimidated by the fact that everybody with a wand could harm her. She had given the impression of someone who was in full control. She had behaved like she felt superior to most other people, Ministry clerks included. In other words, she had been her usual self.

It occurred to him that he hadn't even asked how she was. Did she get along with Lucrecia Runcorn?

It appeared that she did. Perhaps she was in considerable less danger than he was.

Both his mother and Runcorn distinguished carefully between people who mattered and those who didn't. Runcorn would defend his mother against the latter – always and without a second's hesitation. She would do that on principle. Members of the old families, however, would probably think twice before they picked a fight with Runcorn. So, his mother enjoyed an amount of protection he didn't have, and magical safeguards around the house weren't the main point of it.

He was tired from all that ruminating and went back to bed.

But the problem wasn't solved. She was still his mother. Could he just disappear from her life for five whole years without explanation? Perhaps he should write a letter in which he detailed the reasons for his decision. Dwelling on that thought, he eventually dozed off.

...

He woke about an hour later. With nothing else to do, he resolved to set to work on the letter right away. He sharpened a black crayon, took a fresh sheet of paper, and wrote,

Mother,

Please allow me to give you a detailed account of how and why I came to make a certain decision. Arriving at said decision was a lengthy process. I am afraid I acted on mere instinct in the beginning.

At that point, the crayon had become too blunt to continue. He put it down and frowned at the untidy scrawl he had produced. This was far from the neat handwriting his mother had trained him to use. If already the look of the letter was bound to offend her, how could she possibly be inclined to take the content kindly?

He needed a quill.

He crossed the lines out and wrote,

- quill

- ink, black or blue

- parchment

Since he was going to stay here, he also needed to buy a few essentials.

- boots, (What kind of leather do Muggles use?)

- polo-neck pullover

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter, please," he called, raising from the chair and straightening his dressing gown.

"Oh, you are out of bed. That's good to see!" the landlady beamed. "Good evening, Mr Malfoy, and a Happy New Year."

"Thank you, Mrs Bates. Happy New Year to you, too," he said in polite tones. "I take it today is January the first?"

"Why, yes. You lost track, did you?" she said, swapping the tray that held the remnants of his breakfast for one that held dinner. "You look a lot better I have to say. Do you think you're strong enough to stay up for a while? You could take a shower while I change the linen of your bed."

"Why do you act like a house-elf?"

The word was out before he could stop himself. He was such a blundering idiot!

"Well," she said slowly. Her expression lingered halfway between friendly and bemused. "I'm afraid I do not know what exactly a house-elf is."

"A servant," he said, feeling the embarrassment heating his cheeks. She had provided medicine, had brought him three meals a day, and had tidied up his bed while he was in the bathroom, and it wasn't as if he had ordered her to do any this. In fact, he hadn't even asked for help. "All you did for me... voluntarily... during the last days... I mean-"

She took pity on him and interrupted his inane stammer.

"But that is all right, dear. Everybody would have done that," she said, sounding so utterly convinced that he couldn't help feeling awed. "Look, there isn't anyone else here at the moment. Mr Wang has gone to visit friends of his in Edinburgh. He won't be back before term starts, and you couldn't have managed alone with that high fever."

"Thanks," he mumbled. He felt very much at a loss.

"You're welcome," she smiled. "I didn't have any other lodgers over the holidays so making a bit of time for you wasn't a big problem. Actually, I had thought there'd be nobody here at all. If it hadn't been for the muddy footprints you left all over the house, I might not even have found you."

"I'm sorry," he said, speaking not much louder than before.

"Don't worry. I'm not angry. I know you usually mind the house rules. That's why I guessed almost right away that there was something wrong with you."

"Well, yes..." He trailed off. He didn't know how to handle the situation. Would anybody ever render a service – on request or otherwise – and expect no recompense for it? "You will expect payment I suppose?"

To his astonishment, she blushed.

"Well, no, that wouldn't be right," she said. "I can't charge you full board for the morsels you ate. I don't mind getting handsome tips from the businessmen. I'd be lying to say that. But you're a student, and by the look of it, your parents don't pamper you with money."

Her words made him flinch. He definitely did not wish to discuss his parents with her.

"We shouldn't embarrass each other any more," she went on hastily. "Two salesmen are scheduled to arrive tonight at eleven. That means there will be regular breakfast tomorrow morning. You can come downstairs if you feel up to it. I guess the dining hall at the university will be open again from tomorrow as well. There are always the professors and the staff. They have to eat somewhere, haven't they? But promise me not to go much further than that. A leisurely walk to the university may be all right, but more might be overdoing it."

"I guess," he said to cover his confusion. Of course, she was talking under the assumption that he was a student of some sort. Apparently, she connected him with the cluster of buildings that were labelled "university". Most of them were huge, grey slabs of concrete or seemed to consist entirely of glass without being greenhouses. He had avoided the area so far.

"Eat your dinner before it goes cold," she said kindly. "By the way, I'm sorry for this morning. I couldn't bring myself to wake you, but I had an invite to a New Year's brunch, and I didn't want to be late, either."

...

Later, when she had left after changing the linen, he added another item to his shopping list, gift for Mrs Bates.

...

44. Discoveries

The dining hall Mrs Bates had spoken of was huge. A year ago, Draco wouldn't have thought it possible that Muggles should be able to construct something bigger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Then again, a year ago he would have thought many a thing to be impossible.

The majority of people frequenting the dining hall were in their twenties. Some were older and some seemed about Draco's age. His presence there didn't draw any unwelcome attention. Infrequently, he happened upon Dwight. They nodded at each other by way of greeting, but they never spoke.

The glaring Mugglishness of the building notwithstanding, Draco liked the dining hall right from the start. It was only about a ten minutes' walk away from his lodgings, smoking was prohibited, and he could get an acceptable dinner complete with starters and afters for a mere five pounds. Admittedly, afters meant simply an apple most times, but he liked apples. They were good for your health – An apple a day keeps the healer away was one of the old adages that Pansy had been rather fond of quoting – and he had become very protective of his not yet fully restored health. He sought shelter as soon as it started to drizzle.

...

He went shopping. He bought proper boots, a pullover, a pair of gloves, a woollen scarf and a hat. Since he couldn't find a shop selling fur hats, he contented himself with a knitted one. Both scarf and hat harmonised well with the soft brown colour of his parka. He looked less ridiculous wearing them than he had feared.

He also bought five truffles of different flavours at the confectioner's. He said he'd like them gift-wrapped. The shop assistant – another, much friendlier woman than last time – didn't argue but showed him several rolls of patterned paper to choose from. He selected something blue-and-white that reminded him of a summer sky.

Mrs Bates was stunned beyond words when he handed her the small present. It was quite early in the morning, and they were alone in the breakfast room. This left him with the necessity to explain himself, but he did not know how. He had neither questioned nor justified his plan to buy a gift for his landlady; he had just followed through with it.

He felt indebted to her. He very well knew that feeling indebted to Muggles was an inappropriate sentiment. He should think that way, and he probably did think that way. Yet, he didn't feel that way. It was indeed very vexing.

"Take it, please," he said after an awfully long moment of embarrassed silence. His mother didn't know about this. She wouldn't learn about it, either – so why couldn't he just do what he wanted to do?

Why could he never do anything with a clear conscience?

Why did he always have to explain himself? Why was he always forced to justify every spontaneous emotion?

Why couldn't he just be?

"I'm afraid I was acting on impulse buying sweets for you. I know they are no adequate repayment for your services," he went on. "Consider them a gesture."

"Thanks," she said, still flabbergasted.

A group of businessmen in dark three-piece suits filed into the room at this very instant, diverting Mrs Bates's attention and thus saving Draco from further conversation. Without having eaten, he left for a calming walk in the park.

The next morning, Mrs Bates greeted him exactly as amiably as she always had. He relaxed. Her going back to normal indicated that at least she didn't think he had done something wrong.

...

Later that day when he was on his way back from the dining hall, a sudden downpour chased him into a hitherto ignored concrete building situated in the university area. While he waited in the lobby for the rain to stop, he watched people stuffing their coats and bags into lockers.

He stood there until a bunch of girls mistook his idle curiosity as a plea for help. They demanded a coin of him and told him to hand his parka over. Since he was an intruder and outnumbered five to one, he didn't think it prudent to argue. So, he watched as his carefully folded parka was placed inside a locker and the coin slipped into a small slit. One of the girls closed the door and, giggling rather than smiling, let him take the key. Another one said something about always being glad to help freshers.

"Thanks a lot," he said wryly.

The girls giggled some more and walked off.

The rain still fell in torrents. Acting once more on impulse, Draco slipped the key into a pocket. Instead of waiting around he could as well have a stroll – a cautious one – around the building.

It turned out to be a library. There were three storeys of rooms piled high with Muggle books. Little white signs featuring a crossed-out cigarette were nailed to every other shelf. Here and there, Draco detected reading corners furnished with chairs and desks. The latter were occasionally equipped with contraptions that very distantly resembled Foe-Glasses. Nearby signs read, Internet Terminal.

Apart from the Terminals – the word had a somewhat sinister ring to it – he found the place quite nice. The rooms were moderately heated and well lit. Thick carpets dampened the footfall, and anyone who talked did so in hushed tones. A faint, but omnipresent humming added to the general effect of peace and tranquillity.

...

The library was open from eight in the morning till one hour to midnight. It was perfect for spending whole days in comfortable quietness. Nobody took really notice of his being there. Only upon leaving, he had to talk to one of the library assistants because they always asked him politely whether he wished to check out any books. He invariably answered in the negative, and they let him go.

Since he still felt too weak for long walks, he spent indeed more time in that newly discovered library than anywhere else. Luckily, he didn't need any straining exercise in order to be able to sleep at night. In that respect, the illness had worked wonders.

So, he sat in his favourite reading corner, a random book open at a random page placed on the desk for appearance's sake, and composed the letter to his mother.

He used a fountain pen. After unsuccessful inquiries at nearly ten shops, he had grudgingly accepted that Muggles did neither sell nor use quills. Most of them didn't even know what proper quills were. An elderly shop owner had finally talked him into buying the fountain pen. He had demonstrated to Draco how to handle it and how to replace emptied ink cartridges with new ones. Fountain pens weren't dipped into ink vessels. Instead, the ink came in a steady flow from the cartridge inside. It wasn't all that bad once you got used to it.

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Author's notes:

Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.


	17. Part 17

45. Truth and Fact

Composing the letter to his mother was more difficult than he had expected. Usually, he shredded most of the day's work to tiny pieces because, upon proofreading, he always got the impression that he had been merely rambling. Nothing he wrote struck him as compelling enough to get his point across.

He kept the rare passages that seemed to be better than the rest assembled in a folder. Every morning he read them over so he would have a guideline for writing. The topmost page in the folder contained two questions: _What_ _is_ _The_ _Truth_ _to_ _begin_ _with?_ _Is_ _there_ _such_ _a_ _thing_ _as_ _ultimate_ _truth_ _or_ _will_ _truth_ _always_ _be_ _a_ _matter_ _of_ _perspective?_

A matter of perspective – bending rules and distorting facts, plotting and scheming, deceiving and lying were all approved Slytherin qualities. He mused about the possible implications and their consequences quite often these days. The outcome was always the same, and he had written it in the second page, _If_ _I_ _wish_ _to_ _be_ _in_ _control_ _of_ _my_ _life,_ _I_ _will_ _need_ _to_ _stop_ _deceiving_ _myself_.

The third page said, _Is_ _truth_ _the_ _same_ _as_ _honesty?_ _How_ _do_ _I_ _know_ _whether_ _something_ _is_ _true_ _or_ _whether_ _the_ _speaker_ _only_ _believes_ _so?_ Not even Veritaserum could solve that problem.

The questions outnumbered the conclusions by far; they still did after all these months. Therefore, his drafts for the letter invariably started with,

_Mother,_

_I_ _turn_ _to_ _you_ _with_ _a_ _plea_ _for_ _help_ _–_ _help,_ _not_ _just_ _advice_. _Please_ _help_ _me_ _to_ _find_ _answers_ _to_ _my_ _questions_ _because_ _without_ _answers_ _I_ _am_ _doomed_ _to_ _fight_ _yet_ _another_ _losing_ _battle_.

By mid-February, the drafts consisted almost entirely of questions.

Maybe asking was a better approach than explaining. This way, his mother would see more clearly what bothered him.

He copied the long list of questions in his best handwriting on three immaculate sheets of paper and stored them next to the banknotes.

All he had to do now was wait for Lissy to make an appearance.

...

Several weeks elapsed, and the days were uneventful. He went jogging again and also for long walks. However, the more he improved physically, the more the mental unease crept back. Spring was in the air, but he couldn't really enjoy it.

It had been that time of the year when Greyback and his gang of Snatchers had dragged the Golden Trio of Gryffindor into the drawing room...

Draco had not known what to do. Of course, there had been no mistaking Potter. But giving him away would have been the end of everything, and lying had seemed a very bad idea as well. So, he had seen his only option in playing for time, hoping that time was all Potter needed.

He hadn't believed the Trio had shown up by accident. At any rate, Potter using Greyback as a means of getting into the manor had made more sense to Draco than a gang of Snatchers chasing truants during school holidays. Draco had suspected the Stinging Jinx that disguised Potter and the obviously borrowed wand to be part of a crude, Gryffindor-style ruse. Yes, he had been convinced that Potter was up to something.

What exactly Potter's goal had been, Draco couldn't even tell in retrospect. Whether the purpose had been freeing the captives or tricking information out of Aunt Bellatrix by presenting the fake sword – Potter had been successful even though Granger had paid a high price for it.

The bloody git always won. The more hazardous the endeavour, the more likely was Potter to succeed. Draco's main talent was the other extreme – the more an undertaking looked like a sure thing, the more likely he was to mess up. Potter would always come out on top, and once Draco had hated him for that with all his heart.

...

Hard as he tried, Draco couldn't fend off the memory of what had happened after Dobby had Apparated Potter and the others away. The monster's fury had surpassed everything Draco had witnessed or suffered before.

The day after he had failed to kill Dumbledore had been terrible, but it still looked like a birthday party by comparison. The monster had punished him in cold blood and in careful calculation of how much pain a teenager could endure without sustaining permanent damage. Back then Draco had still been considered a moderately useful pawn, standing ready to be sent on the next suicide mission.

After Potter's escape, the monster had been beside itself with rage. Yes, _monster_ and _it_ were the words that applied. If there had ever lived a soul in that hideous body, it had long since been replaced with the completely irrational obsession to destroy Potter. Every other motive, pure-blood supremacy included, put forth to the public had in truth only served as a means to reach the goal of vanquishing a half-grown Gryffindor boy. The monster hadn't minded its followers scheming and plotting in pursuits of their own only as long as their activities contributed to _its_ purpose, and the required minimum of contribution had been to scare Potter's sympathisers out of their wits.

That night, after Potter's escape, Draco had seen the creature in a clearer light than ever before. It was bereft of any human feeling. It inflicted terror and pain without showing the slightest trace of emotion. It knew neither pity nor satisfaction, neither sorrow nor pleasure. The creature calling itself a lord was a shell – a shell, dehumanised and filled with everything that was vile. A shell, a thing, nothing human – Draco had clung to that thought. That night, during torture, he had held on fast to the thought of the snake, the bloody, big snake and the malicious creature that inhabited a human body actually mating. Whence that sick idea had sprung from he couldn't tell till today, but focussing on it had kept him sane. The outrageous depravity of the mental picture had helped him withstand the infinitely worse perversion taking place before his eyes.

Draco knew he had screamed and, at first, not even from pain. He had screamed for his aunt to stop. He hadn't got out more than one half of a sentence, though. A Silencing Charm had hit him, followed up by a Tripping Hex. Doom had towered over him.

"Do you wish to take your father's place?" the monster had asked.

He wasn't sure whether he had nodded.

"There's a good puppy," the monster had continued with a note of fake appreciation in its voice before the cold rage had returned. "He is useless. He is the most pathetic excuse for a wizard I had ever the displeasure to meet. And you are his worthy spawn. You will wait until it is your turn, my reluctant young servant. Oh, did you think I have not noticed your petty doubts? You are sadly mistaken – Lord Voldemort knows exactly who serves him with unqualified devotion and who does not. Does this surprise you?"

The monster had lifted the _Silencio_, but Draco had been too terrified to utter a single syllable. The pause following the question had been filled with his father's groans and his mother's anxious pleading before the monster had announced in a slow, cruel whisper, "And now, pampered little _pure-blood_, you will watch."

It had been a subtly modified Stunning Spell. Draco's eyes had remained open, and he had been unable to avert them.

So, he had been forced to look to where his aunt had stood, pointing a wand at his father. She hadn't just used Cruciatus Curses; she had thrown everything that was humiliating and painful at her helpless brother-in-law, nearly torturing him to death. Draco had seen her face, contorted simultaneously with malice and a revolting sort of pleasure. She hadn't slowed down until her master had assigned her the next victim: her own sister.

And again, Draco been forced to watch – to watch how his aunt had tortured his mother. Maybe Bellatrix Lestrange had been a tad less enthusiastic than with his father, but the cold, sneering voice had egged her on, and she had been all too willing to comply.

When it finally had been Draco's turn, the relief of not having to watch anymore had made the pain almost bearable. Or perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange had been a bit tired by then.

Afterwards, he had lain amidst the scattered shards of the chandelier. Although he had barely been able to move, he had reached out to touch his mother's wrist. There had been a pulse, but she had not stirred. Whether his father was still alive, he had not known.

Through the reddish mist surrounding him, he had witnessed how Lestrange's adored master had made her cast a Cruciatus Curse on herself.

...

46. Lost

He suddenly found himself standing on the edge of a wooden landing stage. Having been lost in thought, he had lost his way as well.

The water splashed gently against the hulls of small sailing boats. The weather was calm and sunny. Birds sang.

He wished he could forget.

He wished he could forget at least this one memory: His parents and he hadn't been punished for letting Potter escape; they had been punished for existing.

That night, as Bellatrix Lestrange's ear-splitting screams had filled the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, Draco had decided that he wouldn't mind _at_ _all_ if Potter won once more. And he had hoped the Gryffindor git could be bothered to win _soon_...

The way his parents had acted after the horrendous ordeal was over had stunned Draco to no end. His mother – she was well versed in healing magic; her skills matched that of a professional healer – had tended to his father's injuries, pretending she didn't know who or what had caused them.

Later she had sealed the many little wounds Draco had sustained wherever the glass shards had found bare skin. She had done a marvellous job on it, but throughout the more than two hours it had taken her to mend every single slash and nick in a way that prevented scars, she hadn't said a word about the horror that had taken place. When he had tried to bring the topic up, she had shushed him.

In the morning, Tribbs had been sent to clean up the drawing room, and that had been that. His mother had simply resumed her everyday routine. Apparently encouraged by her sister's attitude, Bellatrix Lestrange had had the nerve to act as if nothing had ever happened, and his mother hadn't made the slightest effort to rebuke her.

So, Draco had tried to talk to his father.

No doubt, his father had suffered worst. He had barely been able to get up for meals. His face had been less recognisable than Potter's had been the previous night. But despite having escaped death only by a hair's breadth, Lucius Malfoy had not been inclined to see reason.

Draco had not got beyond, _Please,_ _Father,_ _we_ _need_ _to_ _find_ _a_ _way_ _out_ _of_ _this_ _mess_ because his father had right away launched into a stern speech about doing better next time. He had stubbornly maintained that it wasn't yet too late to capture Potter and hand him over so the 'Dark Lord' would forgive them.

Instead of voicing his concerns, Draco had fled to his grandfather's study, thinking what a shame it was that his father should have no more wits than Crabbe or Goyle.

Should he blame himself for not arguing back? Had there been a chance to convince his father if he had tried harder? He doubted it. At any rate, he hadn't seen a chance back then. Frantic and confused, he had yearned for consolation. A row with his father would have made him feel even more miserable.

He had sat in his favourite spot – the corner right behind the door – so that anyone doing only a quick check without actually coming in wouldn't notice him. He had sat on the plush, Persian carpet, hugging his knees to his body, and had waited for the tears to come. But they hadn't. He had not cried once ever since.

...

He strolled back from the jetty and navigated around all sorts of obstacles – huts and cars that were virtually the same size, stacks of construction material, huge reels of fat plastic ropes, iron chests, and boats in not-so-good repair. He finally found a way out of the area, but he was fairly sure it wasn't the one he had come. Walking back to the pedestrian precinct took him nearly an hour.

Once he was there, he sat down on the first unoccupied bench and pulled sketchpad and crayons out of his parka. Lately, he had taken to sketching again. He usually started out with things that were really there – boats and birds, trees in blossom or the potted plants in the library. Sometimes he could keep to such motifs, sometimes the crayons disobeyed and produced images of blood-dripping talons, chandeliers in free-fall, a pair of broomsticks propped up against ramparts, or, time and again, roaring flames with hideous heads.

Needless to say, such pictures represented memories, ones he would prefer not to have. He wasn't sure whether the memories brought the pictures about or the pictures evoked the memories. Both were there, and he had to deal with them on a daily basis.

While he was sketching, he could resist the urge to run. Sketching helped him to focus. He was able to dwell on a topic with enough mental calm to examine it.

Had there been a chance to stop things from happening?

If yes, when? Where? _How?_

He searched for points in time when he might have had another option. Not having seen any options while he had struggled through the events in question did not prove that alternatives had never existed. He might simply have been too blind or too scared to glimpse them.

He had succumbed to acting on mere instinct whenever fear or shame had reached a magnitude that left no room for straight thinking. He had allowed instinct to take over on occasions when rational consideration had suddenly felt off-key.

He slowly filled sheet after sheet with images of glass shards surrounding a dropped wand. While he strove to capture the glittering effect caused by candle light reflecting off broken prisms, his thoughts slipped once more back to the events one year ago.

...

He had not only avoided his aunt at all cost but he had also tiptoed around his father. He had even been reluctant to interact with his mother. Intuition had told him that his parents were in the same dangerous emotional state as he was: frightened, distraught, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His aunt had been kind of mad before, but losing her wand to Potter had unhinged her completely. She had maniacally searched the manor for the blackthorn wand that Greyback had believed to be Potter's. She had known for sure it had still been there after Potter's escape because she had cast the Cruciatus Curses with it. Not finding it anywhere had sent her into tantrums.

Draco did have a theory regarding that wand.

He had watched it drop from her hand after she had cursed herself. It had rolled away and vanished into the red haze that had clouded his vision. He hadn't cared, but later, when he had prepared for his return to Hogwarts, the scene had come back to him. His mother had insisted that he took _her_ wand with him. Although he had known what to expect if word got round in school about him being unarmed, he had hesitated because accepting would have meant to leave her defenceless. However, she had been very firm in the matter. _Do_ _not_ _be_ _concerned_ _about_ _me,_ _Draco_. _I_ _took_ _precautions_. He had not asked about those precautions. He had thought he knew: His mother had ordered Tribbs to hide the blackthorn wand and to reveal its whereabouts to nobody except to herself on explicit request. This way, she had both secured a weapon for herself to use in an emergency and prevented Bellatrix Lestrange effectively from getting hold of it. House-elves were bound to choose a side in cases of inner-family conflict, and with Tribbs, his mother's orders would always have overruled everyone else's, including that of his father or him. Aunt Bellatrix had clearly been further down in command, and without a wand she couldn't have done much to threaten or hurt an elf anyway.

A year ago, he had been in too much of a frenzy to find this observation intriguing. Considering the magic that house-elves could do _without_ a wand, it was downright scary to imagine what they might be able to do _with_ one.

Kicking up that stupid house-elf liberation movement – P.U.K.E. or whatever it had been called – showed nicely Granger's limited grasp of the wizarding world. She probably had no idea what she was bargaining for. Had it ever occurred to her that there might be a _reason_ why house-elves were forbidden to wield wands?

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) Thanks go to Nooka and Kevyn for beta reading.

(2) I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. Work and other obligations got in the way of writing fan fiction.


	18. Part 18

47. Anniversary

He sat in the library. Rain was thrashing against the windowpanes.

It was the first anniversary of Crabbe's death. At least, he thought it was. He wasn't entirely sure whether Crabbe had died before or after midnight.

Draco's Dark Mark had gone hot a quarter to eleven on May 1st, but he had soon lost track of time as events came thick and fast. Around dawn, Potter had emerged victorious. How Potter had pulled it off Draco didn't know. He hadn't been there.

He had been hiding.

No, _hiding_ wasn't the word. He had just sat in the disused bathroom, waiting for the inevitable. His last remaining hope had been for death to be quick and painless.

What had happened before?

Thomas had locked him into a classroom on the second floor, or, perhaps, on the third one. Draco didn't really know. Anyway, the Gryffindor had locked him in. That had been well after midnight because it had been after the second attempt of the monster to lure Potter out of the castle.

Hearing the evil entity making that second speech had had an unprecedented effect on Draco – terror and despair had suddenly turned into white-hot rage: By then, the battle had already gone on for what felt like hours, they all had been doomed to die – people on both sides! – and the fucking coward of a monster hadn't even deemed it necessary to enter the scene itself! To top it all off, it'd had the gall to accuse Potter of having others fight and die as stand-ins! The cheek of it... the hypocrisy, the blatant disregard for anyone's life, the out-and-out wickedness...

Draco had known he was out of his mind. He had known it with stunning clarity, and it hadn't scared him. For a short span of time, he hadn't even wished to calm down. He had acted on that madness – fully aware of what he was doing and yet not in the least frightened by it. Wider awake than ever before in his life, he had sprinted down the corridors trying to find Potter or somebody who was close to the Gryffindor git. Thanks to the temporary cease-fire, no fighting parties had blocked his path. He had leapt over a body lying on the floor; a jet of light had narrowly missed him. He had dived around a corner and practically crashed into Thomas.

Thomas had wrestled him bodily through the nearest open door. The Gryffindor had been rough and angry, but Draco had offered no resistance. Instead, he had blurted out the terrible truth: _That_ _so_-_called_ _Dark_ _Lord_ _is_ _not_ _human_ _it_ _is_ _a_ _monster_ _it_ _will_ _spare_ _nobody_ _don't_ _let_ _Potter_ _go_ _it_ _is_ _a_ _trap_...

In typical Gryffindor fashion, Thomas had been slow on the uptake.

Draco remembered starting to yell and then choking as Thomas had nearly strangled him. Their faces had been mere inches apart. Draco had seen the delicate pattern in the other boy's brown irises.

_How_ _do_ _you_ _know?_ _Since_ _when_ _do_ _you_ _care_ _about_ _Potter?_

He had pleaded, he had stammered. His voice had cracked when he had realised that he had nothing to prove his words, nothing to make Thomas believe him. Thomas had been one of the captives Greyback had brought to the manor... Then again, the Gryffindor having been in on that mission alongside Weasley and Granger surely meant that he belonged to some sort of Inner Circle...

_Please_, _you're_ _close_ _to_ _Potter_... _I'm_ _not_ _lying_. _Once_ _he_ _is_ _dead_, _we're_ all _done_ _for_... _TELL_ _HIM_ _IT'S_ _A_ _TRAP!_

Although Thomas had kept saying he had no reason whatsoever to trust a Malfoy, he had eventually agreed that telling Potter would not hurt.

Draco hadn't relaxed but sagged. He had felt the courage born of black despair and helpless fury drain away at top speed.

Thomas had ordered him to stay put and, using his bare fist, had dealt him a blow to the stomach that had made Draco double over with pain. The punch had taken his breath away long enough for Thomas to nip outside and lock the door.

With the unparalleled bout of bravery and determination gone, Draco had felt wretched and abandoned. He had fumbled for ages with an alien wand. The damn thing – not even back then had he been sure as to where or when he had picked it up – hadn't obeyed him. His hands had shaken so badly, he hadn't been able to aim at a perfectly steady lock, and his voice had quavered so much, he hadn't got out the simplest incantation accurately enough to be effective.

Had he really wanted that door to open? He honestly couldn't tell.

His brain had been in no condition to produce coherent thoughts. Not even his fear had been focussed. It had paralysed him from within and engulfed him from without.

Eventually, the door had creaked open on its own accord; perhaps Thomas's spell had worn off.

Draco had shuffled closer to the threshold and peered out into the dust-filled hallway. Nobody had been there; all had seemed strangely quiet. He had still been standing in the open door, undecided what to do next, when the monster's voice had suddenly boomed across the grounds. Realising the consequences of the first four words of the announcement, Draco's mind had finally shut down. The all-encompassing fear that had made him tremble from tip to toe had abruptly given way to a numbness that had likewise been all-encompassing. That numbness had lingered – at least partially – for weeks afterwards, weeks when the dread of being eaten alive by Greyback had been replaced with the dread of being sent to Azkaban.

Back then, however, in the early morning hours of May 2nd, he had trudged through the wrecked castle without caring where he went. His feet had found the way to his favourite hiding place all on their own. He had slumped down on a toilet seat, and – exhausted and hopeless – he had waited.

Soon there had been the clamour of fierce fighting again. He hadn't understood why people carried on even though their sole hope had been wiped out. Perhaps grief and despair had rendered them insane...

The raging battle had come to an abrupt end. In the eerie silence that had followed, Draco had been beset by mental pictures of Death Eaters rounding up survivors. In his mind's eye, he had seen the mercilessness on their faces and the terror on those of their victims. He had dreaded the moment when the punishment would start.

Instead of the piercing screams of tortured people, he had heard a single, loud crack that had shaken the very walls of the old building. He had idly wondered whether some Gryffindors might be desperate enough to try to blow up the whole castle.

However, the ceiling hadn't come down on him. Jubilant cries of joy and victory had erupted.

He had not known what to make of it. Death Eaters would never, ever cheer _like_ _that_. But the Phoenix lot couldn't have won, could they? Whom had they left to stand up to the most horrible monster that had ever roamed the earth?

He had sat there, his mind blank and his legs limp, for an unknown length of time. Then, suddenly, the Ghost Girl had risen out of the sink, squealing, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead! He's dead! Dead, dead, DEAD! Come and join the celebrations!"

Her excited voice had reverberated off the tiled walls, multiplying the cry of _He_-_Who_-_Must_-_Not_-_Be_-_Named_ _is_ _dead_. She had already vanished back down the pipe again when Draco's tired brain had finally caught on.

...

48. China Peacock

He sat in the library of a Muggle establishment called a university, listened to the rain pounding against the windowpanes, and surveyed the sketches he had done in the course of the day. A few featured a pair of brown eyes. Most pages were filled with Chimaera-headed flames, and one picture showed an elegant china teacup adorned with the ancient Malfoy coat of arms. The teacup puzzled him. Where was the link between an old tea service hardly ever used and the night of the battle?

...

Once more, his thoughts went back to the last hours he had spent at Hogwarts.

He had ventured out of the Ghost Girl's bathroom, maintaining a tight grip on the alien wand in his pocket. The hallways had been littered with broken furniture and smashed gargoyles. Whole stretches of wall had been missing, stairs had become lopsided, flagstones had been cracked.

Trying to ignore the bloodstains everywhere, he had negotiated his way through the debris. The pair of double doors that led to the Great Hall had stood wide open. He had entered unnoticed.

Potter had been there, alive and breathing.

Draco's sluggish brain had had some difficulty processing that piece of information. After a while he had reached the conclusion that the monster's proclamation must have been a plain lie and that, seen in this light, there was little wonder in the battle having resumed shortly after...

Potter had been beleaguered by admirers. For sure, their number had risen tenfold... Draco had paid no more heed to the people intoxicated with their victory than they had paid to him. He had scanned the two long rows of bodies, dreading what he might find. He had gazed at the still faces, unable to comprehend the enormity of the death toll. He had been far to numb to feel anything beyond nausea at the sight of his aunt, of Casper Warrington and Lillian Moon, Rookwood, Dolohov, Mulciber, Agatha Avery and her son, and the many other people arrayed on the floor. There had been strangers and acquaintances, schoolmates whose names he hadn't been able to recall, a Weasley and a shockingly young boy in Gryffindor robes, a girl with plaited hair... Lupin, his cousin by marriage and former teacher, had been placed next to Nymphadora. Crabbe, of course, had not been there.

The very moment he had spotted the carcass of Greyback, both his mother and father had appeared on either side of him. He couldn't tell until today whether the surge of relief had solely been due to seeing his parents alive. Being at long last rid of the stalker might have contributed as well.

His mother had been effusive about having been looking for him for the better part of the night. So, without listening to her actual words, he had known how worried she had been. His father hadn't said much besides complaining about the deceased not yet being respectfully covered with blankets. He had worn an expression of contempt, and Draco hadn't been sure – nor was he sure now – whether this sentiment had meant him.

...

His last conversation with his father so far had taken place the morning after the battle, about two hours before the Aurors had come to arrest them.

"I cannot imagine what compelled you to stay in the castle rather than to leave together with your housemates," his father had said, setting his teacup down with care. "But let us put the question of your true motives aside for the time being because, right now, your main goal should be to interpret your behaviour to your advantage."

If Draco hadn't known that his father never said anything in jest, he might have thought this to be a joke.

"Listen to your father's sound advice," his mother had joined in, not showing the tiniest sign of hesitation or doubt. "Let your acquaintances know as soon as possible that you were not willing to support somebody who was so clearly unfit to take leadership as that self-proclaimed lord. Perhaps you want to write a number of letters?"

He had been stunned beyond words, and his parents had turned back to the topic that had preoccupied them since their return home: the death of Bellatrix Lestrange. Aside from the question what kind of funeral would be considered appropriate under the circumstances, the main problem had been whether his mother's sister had made a will and, if not, how to prevent the third sister from claiming a share of the wealth.

...

He took the picture of the teacup and shredded it methodically.

He had to admit failure yet again. The realisation hurt. It was just the summary of many little things he had discovered over time, but putting them finally together still hurt. His long-standing refusal to see the conclusion when it had lain so plainly before him made him even more ashamed. He had not just failed to see a big sham, no, he had played an active part in maintaining it. For many years, he had done so unwittingly and, yes, innocently. But in the end, he had known.

He had chased a phantom. He had aimed for an eminence that had been fictitious all along. The _earlier_ coat of arms of the Malfoy family featured no snakes, let alone dragons or basilisks. There was nothing but an effing peacock displaying its feathers – a pathetic bird putting on a pompous show of colourful nothings, designed to draw the eye, designed to impress, designed to deceive.

That older emblem was nevertheless quite fitting: Peacocks had probably a brain half the size of a Doxy egg. Why hadn't he seen the indications earlier – before it was too late, before his parents' lives were at stake?

And how early would have been early enough?

He probably had to go back before the day the accursed monster had returned from the dubious realms that stretched in between life and death. But he had been fourteen then, and his head had been filled with Quidditch and homework, with Pansy, with the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament and meeting people from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and, needless to say, with the importance and glory that he allegedly was to gain later in life. In hindsight, he had to admit that there _had_ been warning signs that early on, but they had been weak as well as few and far between. Even summed up and presented to him on a silver tray, they wouldn't have caused him to lose faith in his father then.

Draco had celebrated the unexpected return of the famed 'Dark Lord' with his dorm-mates, believing the powerful wizard would right all wrongs and restore those to power who had a natural claim to it – Draco's father would no longer have to go to the Ministry when he wanted something done. Instead, the Minister would dutifully report to Malfoy manor for instructions. Draco had believed all would soon be well – those who didn't belong there would be banished from the wizarding community, the blasted girl that bested him in every exam would be out of the way, and he would be top of his year.

He had truly believed all this crap until he had realised it was just that: crap. And by then, it had been far too late.

He had been so naive and gullible, so stupid...

One by one, he let the scraps of paper fall into the waste-parchment basket. No, the thing was a waste-_paper_ basket. They didn't use parchment around here, so it was a waste-paper basket. What he was dropping in was paper, too.

He sighed.

Where was he to go from here? Knowing to be in a maze and the map in your hands to be faulty was an improvement. But it didn't yet point you to the exit.

He reached for the fountain pen and a fresh sheet of paper.

_Has_ _my_ _father_ _ever_ _been_ _interested_ _in_ _finding_ _out_ _about_ _truth_ _or_ _people's_ _true_ _wishes?_ he wrote. _Or_ _does_ _he_ _consider_ _truth_ _to_ _be_ _petty_ _and_ _other_ _people's_ _wishes_ _to_ _be_ _irrelevant?_ _Does_ _he_ _prefer_ _to_ _interpret_ _the_ _world_ _in_ _a_ _way_ _that_ _suits_ _his_ _taste_ _and_ _his_ _purposes_ _without_ _caring_ _where_ _and_ _when_ _his_ _ideas_ _conflict_ _with_ _reality_ _because_ _he_ _is_ _manipulative_ _enough_ _to_ _make_ _others_ _adopt_ _his_ _point_ _of_ _view_ _no_ _matter_ _how_ _flawed_ _this_ _view_ _might_ _be?_ _Did_ _he_ _gain_ _his_ _goals_ _that_ _way?_

It was harsh. But he silently vowed to add the passage to the letter that was waiting to be sent to his mother.

He wasn't going to back down now that he had come this far.

...

49. Fiendfyre

Dusk had fallen outside. The rain was tapping gently against the windowpanes.

Draco put the sketches showing Thomas's eyes aside and arranged the remaining ones on the desk – for a fleeting second, he had the impression of being back in the Room of Requirement, encircled by live flames.

He gripped the desk with both hands to prevent himself from jumping out of his chair and running. With great effort, he calmed down enough to focus on the memory.

...

No sooner had their Dark Marks gone hot than Crabbe and Goyle had pulled robes over their pyjamas and rushed off to find the Carrows. He had dallied. He had sat on his bed, trying to recall the times when he had felt the same eagerness and excitement as them. It had seemed like aeons ago. Too much had happened that he hadn't been prepared for.

The mere thought of what this night might bring on had chilled him to the bone. He had known in advance that the oncoming challenges would be ten times too much for him.

He had wished himself far, far away.

All year through, he had wished himself to be in another place than the one he was actually in. When he had been at Hogwarts, he had longed to be at home. And when he had been at home, he had wanted nothing more than to be back at school. There had been no escape, though. The threat posed by the monster had been everywhere, and replacing the Carrows with Greyback and Bellatrix Lestrange – or vice versa – hadn't made much of a difference. Now, a year later, he realised that in truth he had wished himself back in time – back to when his home had still been a home and his school just a school.

However, the very instant McGonagall had started to talk about evacuation, Draco had resolved to stay in the castle. _Resolved_ was perhaps an overstatement; it had been one of the occasions when he had acted on instinct. He had chosen a million to one chance for mercy over certain doom.

Maybe he should have followed through with what instinct had told him: step aside on the way out, cast a Disillusionment Charm, disappear into a side corridor. But he had informed Crabbe and Goyle of his plan because he had reckoned they would have a life expectation of perhaps a quarter of an hour after entering the battle on the monster's side.

Would Crabbe be still alive if he, Draco, had kept his mouth shut? Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been listening to him anymore after the Easter holidays, so why had he tried yet again to be their adviser? Something had compelled him, some obligation that he had thought he had... He remembered his mother's words upon him leaving for Hogwarts for the first time. _Vincent_ _and_ _Gregory_ _will_ _rely_ _on_ _you_ _for_ _guidance_, _Draco_. _They_ _will_ _look_ _up_ _to_ _you_ _the_ _same_ _way_ _their_ _fathers_ _look_ _up_ _to_ _yours_-

"I'm sorry to interrupt, dear, but we're closing in ten minutes."

An elderly library assistant – a woman with large spectacles and thinning, grey hair – stood across the desk.

"We're closing," she repeated. "I'm afraid you have to pack up for today."

"Sorry," Draco said, getting up and collecting his sketches. He would much rather do nothing that made the staff suspicious of him. He liked the place too much to risk being banished from it.

He stuffed the crayons into their box, grabbed the folder with the sketches, and bade the librarian good night. He was already out in the hall, when she called after him.

"Wait! You've lost a picture!"

He went back and found her enthralled by a sheet of paper filled with flames that sprouted claws and fangs...

Heat rose to his temples. She was bound to ask about the meaning of it, and he couldn't explain about cursed fire because that would be a breach of the _International_ _Statute_ _of_ _Wizarding_ _Secrecy_.

"That's quite good, actually," she said. "Well, the subject is horrible – that can't be denied, but _the_ _way_ you did this is really arty. One could be persuaded these flames were leaping out of the picture and attacking the beholder. And giving them faces, and not just any faces but the features of mythical creatures that are generally associated with cruelty and violence, certainly multiplies the effect. You know, your picture doesn't so much show a raging inferno than it shows the _fear_ _of_ _it_."

He felt completely gobsmacked. The woman believing to recognise dragons and chimaeras as "mythical beings associated with cruelty and violence" was one thing. The other thing was her being absolutely right – he didn't sketch Fiendfyre, he sketched the terror he had felt.

She held the picture out to him.

"Your tutor will be pleased," she said as he took it. His confusion must have been visible on his face because she added, "Aren't you going to hand it in?"

"This isn't homework," he said without really intending to. "You don't understand. This has got nothing to do with artistic metaphors or mythology."

"What is it then?" she asked, mildly puzzled.

He hesitated for only the briefest moment. He knew that he should not answer, that he wasn't allowed to answer, but he wanted to. He wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to say aloud what had bothered him the whole day, nay, what had eaten him the whole year. "This is real. Today, exactly one year ago, one of my classmates died in such a fire. He had started it himself, and none of us had the power to stop it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, and the genuine warmth in her voice amazed him. "Was he a friend?"

"There was a time when I was foolish enough to think so," he said. "He wasn't too bright. I did about nine tenths of his homework for him. I revised with him a lot, but he still failed every other test. I also used to order him about a lot. Sometimes it was in his best interest, but by and large, it was just for my convenience. I never questioned my behaviour – I was simply emulating my father's conduct toward his. Master and servant – it had been like this since the dawn of time, or so I thought."

She gave him an inquisitive look.

"You aren't implying that you were involved in some way in starting that fire? You didn't egg him on, or did you?"

"Merlin, no!" The words were out before he knew it.

He thought he saw her relax.

"Well, was there anything you could have done beforehand?" she went on. "Telling a teacher perhaps?"

He simply shook his head at the idea.

"I didn't know beforehand. I didn't know somebody had instructed him how to cast Fiend-... how to cause this kind of fire. He didn't just put a candle to a stack of parchment... er, paper."

"Well, you see, sometimes we're blaming ourselves for what cannot possibly be our fault – events we couldn't have foreseen, accidents we couldn't have prevented, diseases we couldn't have healed, all the things out there on which we have no influence. We blame ourselves the more the dearer the deceased person was to us because we wish we would have been able to save them somehow," she said wistfully. "We wish we could undo the damage with some all-powerful, magical spell. But we can't, and that makes us even more sad."

He gasped.

"I'm not sure what to say to somebody as young as you without sounding awfully hackneyed," she continued. "Perhaps that: Always try to be as good a man as you can be. But aiming for absolute perfection might cause more harm than good both to you and others."

There was a pause since he didn't know what to reply.

She nodded at him and made to retreat.

"Thank you for your kind words," he finally said, clinging to formal politeness. "But I had better go home now."

...

Slowly, he walked up to Hind Green Close. He breathed in the cool night air that still smelled of rain. It also smelled of flowers.

Had he really referred to the little chamber with a slanted wall as _his_ _home_?

...

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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)


	19. Part 19

50. Facing the Facts

The conversation with the librarian had sent his mind reeling. He resisted the temptation to dwell on her remarks about dragons and all-powerful, magical spells. He had to answer the question of whether he was as blameless as she had been willing to believe.

He honestly had not known about the Carrows teaching Crabbe a spell as hazardous as the Hellfire Curse. But he should have. At least, he should have suspected it. He had underestimated the scope of their irresponsibility despite prior evidence.

He had also misjudged Crabbe and Goyle.

No sooner had they left the Great Hall together than Draco had lost control. When he had whispered to them about his plan to stay inside the building, Goyle had straight off jumped to conclusions.

_Going_ _to_ _catch_ _Potter_ _single-handedly,_ _are_ _you__?_

There had been a glint in Goyle's eye that Draco had never seen before.

_ Isn't_ _that_ _task_ _a_ _wee_ _bit_ _too_ _big_ _for_ _you_, Draco? _But_ _don't_ _worry_. _We_ _will_ _assist_ _you_. _We've_ _always_ _been_ _your_ _loyal_ _assistants_, _haven't_ _we?_

Draco had tried to argue, but the mocking in Goyle's retorts had become more pronounced by the second. So, Draco had cast Disillusionment Charms on all three of them lest their dawdling raise suspicion. Instead of seeking refuge where neither side would come looking for him – in McGonagall's office for example – he had found himself seeking Potter.

The castle had been in turmoil. The hordes of people hastening hither and thither had slowed them down. Even Crabbe had understood that he couldn't risk anybody bumping into him by accident. So they had moved stealthily up and down stairs and along hallways, wands in hand. Goyle had taken care they stayed – literally – in touch. If Draco had ever believed Goyle to be as dim as Crabbe, he had been very much mistaken. Goyle had copied homework from him mostly because he had preferred lazing around when he should have been studying.

Several times they had spotted Potter sprinting through the crowd but had always lost sight of him quickly. The one time they had come within wand-range, Potter had been reunited with his cronies. Goyle, swifter than Draco could react, had aimed a spell at the Golden Trio, and Crabbe, eager to outshine his companion, had tried the same while simultaneously nudging Goyle's wand arm aside. Somehow, both spells had merged and shot straight through the ceiling, causing an explosion on the floor above. What each of them had been trying to cast Draco hadn't had the faintest idea. He _should_ have realised there and then that his classmates had become a danger to friend and foe alike. But he hadn't.

The Golden Trio had vanished again. Goyle, however, had picked up something from their conversation about an object hidden in the Room of Requirement. He had dragged Draco along, holding his upper arm in an iron-like grip.

_Come_ _on_, _Malfoy_. _What_ _are_ _you_ _waiting_ _for?_ _A_ _written_ _invitation?_

Draco had not wanted to confront Potter, not in the least. A few weeks earlier, _before_ the Easter holidays, he might have hoped for the girl to solve the situation thanks to her quick thinking. Or he might have hoped for Weasley to Stun them – without wasting time on any thinking whatsoever – and be done with. But after what had happened at the manor, after what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to the girl and how Weasley had reacted to it, nothing so merciful was going to happen.

He had seen no way out. That was all the more devastating as he could now, twelve months too late, see just how easy it would have been to stop his former classmates...

Upon reaching the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, Goyle had insisted on lifting the Disillusionment Charms. Why, Draco hadn't been able to fathom. Both Goyle and Crabbe had answered his desperate attempts to talk some sense into them with pointing their wands at his chest.

_Surely_, _Malfoy_, _you_ _disappoint_. _Opening_ _the_ _Room_ _of_ _Hidden_ _Things_ _should_ _be_ _a_ _piece_ _of_ _cake_ _for_ _you_.

He had succumbed. He had opened the room, and Crabbe and Goyle had rushed in ahead of him. For several long seconds, their backs had been in front of him, visible again and unprotected, thus providing him with a neat, almost fail-safe chance to stop them.

Why hadn't he simply placed them under an Imperius and commanded them to walk to a hiding place of his choice? He could have done it; he had been able to cast effective Imperiuses with his mother's wand. But the idea hadn't struck him, not back then when it would have made all the difference.

Instead, he had foolishly soothed himself with the thought that the Room of Hidden Things was large enough to get lost in, and that they might search the endless aisles for an hour without coming across Potter. Of course, there had been no such luck. Goyle had spotted Potter in a jiffy. And just to make matters worse, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor had been on his own.

Like before, at the manor, Draco had seen the only option in playing for time. He had started a petty argument about wands, and Potter, waiting for Granger and Weasley to show up, thankfully had played along.

But things had got out of hand and horribly so. His memory was slightly blurred from the point on when he had bodily wrestled with Crabbe. A jet of scarlet light, a Stunner most likely, had narrowly missed their heads. Crabbe had thrown him off and started to cast Killing Curses. Horrified, Draco had finally made an attempt to stop the amok-running idiot. He had been about to Stun Crabbe – without thinking, just acting on impulse – when Crabbe had swung round like an oversized club, knocking the wand away and leaving Draco with no means other than to scream.

_Don'tkillhim_, _don'tkillhim_, _don'tkillhim_, _DON'T_ _KILL_ _HIM!_

One of the Gryffindors had knocked out Goyle, Draco hadn't had a wand anymore, and Crabbe had loosed hell upon them. The rest had been agony of death. He had tried to keep the unconscious Goyle out of range of the flames; Crabbe had vanished somewhere in the roaring inferno.

...

He opened the door to the would-be balcony. Flower-scented air flowed into his room. Denial was futile: The little room with a slanted wall was his home for the time being. There was no other place he could call that.

Sighing, he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the heating device.

The friendly librarian was wrong. He could have done something to save Crabbe. He just hadn't seen the option, hadn't seized his chance. He had acted too late, and it had been to no avail.

He sat down heavily on the five-wheeled chair.

Vincent Crabbe was dead.

Blaming the poor sod for his own death would be downright hypocritical.

Drunk with the prospect of being greatly rewarded, Crabbe had been hell-bent not only on bringing Potter down but also on outperforming Goyle in the process.

No, Draco couldn't blame him. He had been hardly any better when he had actually been proud of being given a mission by the monster that he had still called a "lord" at that point of time. He had probably been scared right from the start, but he had indeed believed the sheer magnitude of the mission to be an indication of the esteem bestowed on him.

The opposite had been true: The task of killing Dumbledore had been given to him to see him fail. The death of the son had been the intended punishment for the father.

If he had not seen what was going on until it was too late, how could he expect Crabbe with his limited brain capacity to catch on? They had fallen for the same lies and the same illusions.

The difference was that Vincent Crabbe had paid with his life for his errors. Draco doubted anyone had found an identifiable body for Mrs Crabbe to bury her son properly.

He took out the fountain pen and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. He had to tell Crabbe's mother he was sorry.

...

51. Early Spring Bank Holiday

When he read the letter over in the morning, his writing struck him as being far from polished. Yet, it said exactly what he had felt last night.

After a short moment of pondering, he decided against a rewrite. Ludmilla Crabbe, much to his mother's discontent, was a plainspoken person herself. She always blurted out without restraint what she thought or felt. He had never seen her taking offence in somebody else doing the same.

He folded the paper carefully, put it into his shirt pocket, and went downstairs.

...

"You're ten minutes late, Mr Malfoy," Mrs Bates said jokingly. The sunlit breakfast room was empty except for the two of them. "You didn't sleep in by any chance, did you?"

"I slept well. Thank you for asking," he replied with the ease that stemmed from perfectly automated manners. "And how are you this morning, Mrs Bates?"

"Fine. Scrambled eggs?"

"Yes, please."

While she spooned eggs onto a plate, he said, "I'd like to ask you a question."

"Well then, out with it!"

"How do I go about sending a letter?"

"Where would there be a problem with sending a letter?" she asked, handing him the plate.

"I'm not sure whether writing 'Mrs Ludmilla Crabbe, The Elmhouse' will be enough for the mail servants to find the addressee."

She laughed.

"I'm afraid not. You'll need a postcode. That's it, right? You don't know the postcode?"

"I don't know the postcode," he agreed. He didn't even know what a postcode was. He remembered giving her a random combination of letters and numerals based on the ones Dwight and Marc had stated upon their arrival here.

"Well, ask at the post office then. There is one just over in Queens Street. If you know the rest of the address, I'm sure they will be able to help you."

He knew about the post office in Queens Street. He had been to all post offices in town. It simply hadn't occurred to him that their main purpose wasn't to change money. He thanked her, reciprocating her smile, and sat down to eat.

...

On his way to the post office, he contemplated contacting his mother via Muggle mail as well. He wanted answers, but the letter to her still lay where he had put it more than two months ago.

Then again, chances for the mail servants to find Runcorn's cottage were probably nil. Apart from that, his mother would be reluctant to even touch what would seem to her a dubious object of Muggle origin. She was more likely to fetch a smouldering log from the kitchen and set fire to it.

Maybe he could circumvent these obstacles by sending the letter to somebody else by means of Muggle mail and asking them to forward it. But – aside from the problem of not knowing the correct addresses – who would do him this kind of favour? He couldn't think of anyone.

Asking Mrs Crabbe was completely out of the question. It would degrade the letter to her to a mere pretext. Anyway, how was _she_ going to react to a letter transported by Muggle mail?

He hoped she wouldn't mind too much. To her, Muggles were an entertaining curiosity. He remembered her referring to them often as 'cute, little monkeys'.

The mail servants should be able to deliver the letter. Elmhouse was situated only three hundred yards outside a small Muggle village and fully visible. The Crabbes had never bothered with intricate wards – the distinct habits of the family combined with Mr Crabbe's quick temper had always sufficed to make the villagers keep their distance.

...

The post office in Queens Street was closed.

He was a bit puzzled by that, but he didn't mind walking on to North Gate Road. The streets were unusually quiet for a weekday, and he liked walking anyway.

At the office building in North Gate Road, they had a sign up saying they wished their customers a nice _Early_ _Spring_ _Bank_ _Holiday_ and would be back in service the next day.

Early Spring Bank Holiday?

Draco had never heard of it. _Beltane_, or _Walpurgis_ as some people called it, had been last Friday. It wasn't much celebrated in the wizarding world these days, but in former times witches had observed secret fertility rituals that no male had ever been allowed to attend.

Whatever rituals the Muggles observed today, all their post offices were closed. The letter would have to wait.

Mulling that over, Draco became suddenly aware of the date – May 3rd. He had no idea what made that particular date meaningful to Muggles, but he knew all too well what significance it had for him.

His feet almost started moving before he had resolved that the best way – maybe the only way at all – to spend this day was taking a very long walk.

...

So there was, for the thousandth time, the question of what he had told the Aurors. Could it really have been that much, considering how little he knew?

Their faces had been anything but pleased when he had regained consciousness. They hadn't simply shown weariness caused by a long questioning that had yielded disappointing results. They had looked dismayed. What on Earth could he have said that had made the winning party uncomfortable?

He didn't have the faintest clue.

Had he told them how Crabbe had died? Had he spoken about his subsequent row with Goyle?

The Golden Trio had disappeared. Goyle had come round and demanded to hear what had happened. Draco had given him a short but true account, and Goyle had hit the roof.

_You_ _allowed_ _that_ _Mudblood_ _scum_ _to_ _touch_ _me?_

Draco had tried to reason with him. However, pointing out the fact that he was only still alive because the Gryffindors had saved him had driven Goyle even madder.

_Crabbe_ _tried_ _to_ _bring_ _Potter_ _down_ _with_ _him!_ _He's_ _a_ _hero!_ _He_ _will_ _be_ _honoured!_ _He_ _died_ _for_ _a_ _noble_ _cause_, _but_ _you_ _lily_-_livered_ _wimp_ _let_ _them_ _escape!_ _You_ _should_ _have_ _made_ _sure_ _that_ they _died_ _too!_ _But_ _no_, _you_... _you_ _useless_, _stuck_-_up_ _piece_ _of_ _muck_ _can't_ _be_ _arsed_...

Goyle had abruptly ended his rant to enquire about his wand. Draco, with more coldness than he had thought possible under the circumstances, had replied, _You_ _allowed_ _that_ _Mudblood_ _scum_ _to_ _disarm_ _you_.

Goyle, seething with rage, had hit him with a burst of raw magic. Its force had thrown Draco against the opposite wall. Dazed, he had slid downwards. Goyle had towered over him, and his eyes had shown the same beastly greed as Greyback's. Draco had seen ruthlessness and wanton brutality all year long, but to see it in someone his age, someone he had once considered a friend had scared him to no end.

Goyle had spat into his face.

_I_ _hope_ _I'll_ _never_ _see_ _your_ _ugly_ _mug_ _again_.

Goyle had left then, and Draco had muttered to his retreating back, _Likewise_.

Did Aurors listen to such tales?

...

52. A Close Call

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he barely noted how he left the outskirts of the city behind. Soon, the farmland was replaced with pastures. There were sheep and the occasional lone horse for a while. Then there were only heather and low bushes.

...

Perhaps the Aurors had simply rattled off a list of names, hoping their drugged prisoner would divulge a tiny speck of information here and there.

- _Is_ _John_ _Borgin_ _a_ _Death_ _Eater?_

- _I_ _do_ _not_ _know_.

- _Is_ _Belvina_ _Borgin_ _a_ _Death_ _Eater?_

- _I_ _do_ _not_ _know_.

- _Is_ _Siegfried_ _Bagman_ _still_ _an_ _active_ _Death_ _Eater?_

- _I_ _was_ _told_ _he_ _was_. _I_ _never_ _saw_ _him_ _at_ _the_ _meetings_, _though_.

- _Is_ _Miles_ _Bletchley_ _a_ _Death_ _Eater?_

- _I_ _do_ _not_ _know_.

- _Is_ _John_ _Bole_ _a_ _Death_ _Eater?_

- _Yes_, _he_ _is_.

- _Ah_, _here_ _we_ _go!_ _If_ _you_ _were_ _to_ _find_ _him_ _today_, _where_ _would_ _you_ _look?_

- _I_ _would_ _ask_ _his_ _fiancée_, _Thalassa_ _Harper_.

If Bole or others had been captured and imprisoned because of his lack of vigilance, they would blame him for it for the rest of their lives. And didn't they have a right to do so? Would he, being in their place, think differently? Would he not call Draco Malfoy a failure?

In fact, it didn't matter whether he had actually betrayed anyone. The possibility that he _might_ have given information to the Aurors was more than enough for the ones like Bole to scorn him for all the rest of _his_ life.

He was cold. When he looked around, he found the landscape shrouded in mist. The bleakness of the scene mirrored his state of mind perfectly. Once, spring had been his favourite season. Now, all the cheerfulness was gone.

A few steps later, the fog had become so thick he hardly could see ten yards ahead.

He stopped short. There was the same impenetrable fog in every direction. The mists seemed to swirl in the most eerie fashion. All of a sudden, he wasn't even sure anymore whence he had come.

He turned and made a few, tentative steps into the direction he thought to be the one back to the city. There was nothing familiar on either side of the footpath that seemed hardly more than a deer-trail. Then again, he hadn't paid attention before. Even without the fog he wouldn't know whether or not he had passed by a specific part of vegetation earlier.

He was lost.

Panic rose. Wherever he went now, he wouldn't be able to keep his bearing – not without a Point-Me charm. He had never seen fog to be as dense as the one that surrounded him here.

He actually jumped when he heard a noise. A dry twig broke under his foot.

"Cornfoot, is that you?" somebody called.

The voice was muffled by the fog and hard to locate. Nevertheless, Draco let out a shuddering breath. There were people here; it was going to be all right...

"I'm over here," another muffled voice answered from farther off.

"There was something more to the left. Is somebody else here?"

"The others went north of us. It's probably just a hedgehog."

"It sounded like footfall."

Draco was about to call out in order to announce his presence when he heard one of the men say, "Come off it, Poke. I cast _Repello_ _Muggletum_ at every three yards."

Draco's breath caught in his throat. They were wizards! He tried to edge away without making a sound.

"Who's talking about Muggles?"

"Honestly, the _Prophet_ has been printing the warning on a daily basis. Don't you think that's enough to keep folks from coming here for a picnic?"

"Yeah, but there's always idiots who think they might get famous catching a stray dragon single-handedly."

A dragon! Draco suppressed a yelp. He had to get away, and quickly!

"We had better make sure," insisted the first speaker. "Shacklebolt will go spare if the beast barbecues some would-be hero."

"Okay, you win," the other one conceded gruffly. "I'll lift the fog. But just for a sec."

Draco threw himself down behind the nearest bush. The thing had thorns; he injured his hand. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his good hand onto the wound and waited for the pain to subside.

"And? Happy now?" asked an impatient voice nearby.

"Didn't you hear that right now?"

"Yes, I did hear that. But do you see anybody? It's animals like I told you."

"Well, maybe..."

There was movement and Draco pressed himself more firmly to the ground.

"Get a move on, Poke. We need to find the lair. Charlie Weasley says the beast is in rut. It has already caused disease to spread among the cattle of the Muggles, and that's just the start. Look, the closest Muggle dwelling is right over there. That's a mere two miles, two and a half at the utmost." – Draco caught a glimpse of a robed figure pointing at something he couldn't see from where he lay. He memorised the direction, though. "I'll put the shield back in place. It doesn't do for Muggles to spot a Welsh Green. _Expecto_ _Prohibentem_!"

The swirling fog reappeared.

Draco didn't dare move. He listened intently to the retreating voices. When everything seemed quiet, he got up and fled.

At first, he hardly saw where he was heading. He stumbled more than he ran, and once he almost fell into a tangle of brambles. After about a hundred yards, the fog became thinner. He sprinted across the moorland. Heather crushed under his feet. He sped past sheep and grazing horses and raced downhill until he reached a farmhouse with a cream-coloured bowl attached to the roof.

There, he slowed to a walking pace.

He was out of breath. He felt nauseous. His palm hurt where the skin was torn. But all in all, he had been incredibly lucky. If he had happened upon that dragon without having a wand to cast _Protego_ or at least a Conjunctivitis Curse, he would have been a goner. Coming across a Weasley without having a wand would already have been bad enough.

He needed to be more careful. Muggle Repelling Charms wouldn't keep _him_ off dangerous grounds. In fact, _any_ place that had to do with magic and wizardry was potentially dangerous to him. He was as defenceless as a five-year-old child, and there was no Dobby to Apparate him away at the first sign of trouble.

He really had to be more watchful, especially in unexplored areas. He had to make sure to always have something in sight that clearly indicated Muggle territory – odd bowls sitting on roofs, cars and the lights that regulated their movements, tiny red huts with TELEPHONE written above the entrance, small signs warning against being struck down by lightning and larger placards advertising low-priced goods, or the unsightly ropes that hung suspended between tower-like structures made of iron or between wooden posts and houses.

...

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to be continued

...

Many thanks to my beta readers. :)


	20. Part 20

53. A Chance Meeting

The Early Spring Bank Holiday had prevented him from making a mistake. Posting the letter in Queens Street or North Gate Road would have violated a basic safety regulation that he had laid down for himself: Don't use the same post office twice.

There was also no knowing whether Muggle mail could be backtracked to the sender. He suspected that there were a few Ministry people with a certain insight into the proceedings because their duty comprised communicating with Muggles whose children had been accepted at Hogwarts.

Therefore, Draco resolved to post the letter elsewhere, preferably in a town several hundred miles away. Going northward seemed the best option, and he made sure there was a train going back the same day because he didn't want to repeat the awful odyssey from last December.

...

The city was big and ugly. Cars clogged the streets. Rain was pouring down in torrents, and he had forgotten to bring his raincoat.

Fortunately, the red and green lights worked the way he had learned it, and he found a post office quickly. The clerk wasn't particularly eager to be of assistance, though. She grew more and more impatient as he gave an accurate description of the Crabbes' house. Only when he mentioned the name of the tiny village that was situated nearby, she consented to tell him the postcode.

Regrettably, this wasn't the end of their interaction. According to the stubborn clerk, a _stamp_ and an envelope were necessary to send a letter. She sold him the so-called stamp – a little, sticky picture showing the same lady whose portrait was on the banknotes – but refused to sell him the single envelope he needed. Instead, she made him buy an entire package of them.

When the letter was finally inside the envelope, the stamp glued to it, and the address written properly, the annoying woman was still not pleased. She insisted on him putting his own address on the envelope as well.

At this point, Draco was thoroughly fed up with the matter. He scribbled his former address in Wiltshire on the back of the envelope and added a postcode that was pure fantasy.

She scowled at his writing. Fury plainly written on her face, she crossed the postcode out and tossed the letter back to him.

"Think that is funny, do you?" she hissed.

For a moment, he was stumped. Then anger flared up. Not trusting himself with any reply whatsoever, he snatched the letter from the counter and stormed off. On his way out, he all but ran down a man who was distracted by answering questions that a little plastic thing in his hand asked him.

The man cried out angrily; Draco rushed on without a word.

What was it with these plastic boxes, anyway? Draco had witnessed before how the little devices actively sought attention by emitting beeping noises whereupon their owners would take them out and start talking to them. Nobody besides him seemed to consider that an eccentric habit.

...

The rain hadn't lessened a tad. Draco ran back to the train station where he paced the reception hall like a caged animal. He needed to walk in order to calm down and to collect his thoughts, but outside, he would be soaked through in no time at all, and in here, he was drawing attention to himself. Why did he have to mess up_ everything_?

The mail clerk being a short-tempered, utterly unpleasant old bat was one thing. The worse trouble was that the blasted woman would remember him. Nobody would have to force information out of her by means of spells or potions; she would volunteer it: _Insufferable youngster? Blonde? Yes, he was here. Yes, yes, Draco Malfoy. Tried to send a letter to one Ludmilla Crabbe. That was on May 4..._

The only soothing aspect about the whole affair was that the incident had taken place in a different town rather than at the post office in Queens Street.

He jumped in alarm when he suddenly heard his name being called. They couldn't already be coming after him, could they?

Instead of Aurors, a chubby girl walked up to him. She had very short, brown hair and was dressed like the female employees of bank houses. She was in her early twenties, and he had seen her before.

"Hi, Draco!" she beamed. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Err... hello," he said and swallowed.

Her smile faltered.

"Don't you remember?" she asked. "Ole Penwith's Owl Lodge?"

"Yes, I do. How are you" – he paused to recall her name – "Trish?"

"Fine," she said. "Or not so fine. But that's another story. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm trying to send a letter," he said. Sticking with the truth was probably better than to ad-lib any tales.

"Oh, there's a postbox right in front of the entrance," she said, pointing with her wet umbrella to the two large doors that opened obediently whenever somebody approached them.

"Right, thanks," he said.

While he wondered whether it would seem odd if he asked for further details, she spoke again, "Why did you never phone me? I gave you my number. Did you lose your sketchpad or something?"

Remembering how he had tried in vain to figure out the meaning of the numerals she had written on his sketchpad, he said, "I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do."

"Now, what lame an excuse is that?" she exclaimed. "I gave you my phone number and told you to ring me up. What's there not to understand?"

She had told him to do this mysterious 'ringing up' when he was back in Wiltshire. Technically, he had been there for a few hours, but he was sure that he hadn't thought of her that night. In fact, he hadn't thought of her at all since last autumn.

She looked him up and down with narrowed eyes.

"Okay, let me guess. You've got a girlfriend. Right? Is that it?" she said. "I should have known. Pretty boys are always taken. That's just my luck. I'm either too fat, or too plain, or too _unsophisticated._ That stuck-up, old crow! I travel all these miles, I'm wearing my best clothes," – she indicated the two-piece-suit – "and you know what she tells me? 'Your qualification may be adequate but your appearance is not, young lady. Our clientele expect a sophisticated, urban flair and, naturally, we strive to provide it.' What does that snob think? That I buy from Dior? _Without_ having a job? Oh, I could have kicked her!"

Draco stared at her. Her wrath made her somehow glow from within.

"I'm sorry," he said tentatively. "I'm afraid I can't quite follow you."

"What?" She shot him a heated look, but settled down in some measure. "Oh well, of course, it's perfectly all right for you to have a girlfriend. Sorry for yelling at _you_. We've known each other for altogether ten minutes perhaps, and it's not as if you had promised me anything. I'm just so upset! I didn't get that job because I'm an unsophisticated country bumpkin, and my looks would offend the posh guests! And she had the cheek to tell me that to my face! You should have seen _her_! She didn't just wear make-up; her face was positively caked with paint."

"Who, exactly, are you talking about?

"The personnel manager of the hotel." She heaved a sigh. "I came here for a job interview."

"I see," he said. He suddenly did understand. He knew how it felt to fail despite your best efforts.

"Yeah. When I saw you, I thought the day might not be entirely wasted after all. Well, never mind," she said, shrugging. "I need to get going or else the train will leave without me. That would definitely be the icing on the cake."

"Have a safe journey," he said. "And thanks for telling me about the postbox."

"You're welcome." A weak smile appeared on her face as she turned to leave. "It's all red and tall – you can't miss it. Bye, Draco! Take care!"

He watched her disappear into the crowd. There were not many people who called him by his given name. She did as if this was a matter of course.

...

The postbox was indeed easy to find. In fact, he had seen such red cylindrical objects in many places. He had also seen people pushing paper in, but he hadn't given their activities any thought.

He let the letter drop inside and wondered what would happen now – not so much how Mrs Crabbe would react, but how the letter would be transported to her. Did the many red cylinders form some sort of Muggle Floo Network? Did they suck in letters and spill them out again at their destination? If so, what was the actual task of mail servants?

After living nearly a year in this world, he still knew next to nothing.

On the other hand, compared to what he once had known about Muggles, his knowledge was huge.

...

54. The Merchant of Constantinople

Ever since he had been a toddler, Draco had heard that Muggles had a limited grasp of reality, couldn't perform magic and were, by and large, pretty useless. His parents had never provided solid facts to verify that conviction, but that hadn't bothered him in the least. He had simply made their opinion his own – as usual. At Hogwarts, he had scorned everybody who had merely considered the option of taking Muggle Studies.

She-Carrow had made the subject compulsory for everyone, but her lessons had hardly warranted the label "studies". She had delivered the same speech of heartfelt hatred every week until the biggest numbskull could recite it back and forth_._

_ Muggles are an inferior breed._ _They can speak but most of the time, they spout nothing but nonsense. Their mental capacity doesn't even reach that of a house-elf..._

Draco hadn't wasted a thought on her words beyond making sure he could always repeat them without flaw. Not infuriating her had been vitally important; the subject matter itself had been completely irrelevant.

No, Muggles had never been of any interest to him. Neither had he truly hated them nor had he been the least bit curious about them. They simply hadn't belonged to his world.

Even the soothsayer's prediction had failed to make him think twice. Instead of reminding himself that prophecies often proved true in a most unexpected way, he had listened to his mother, who had accused the old witch of being a brazen fraud. He would never have doubted his mother's judgement in such matters – obviously, another mistake on his part.

...

So here he stood in the entrance hall of the library and was resolved to learn what was necessary to muddle through everyday Muggle life without stirring up suspicion or causing ill feeling towards his person. The events of the last days had shown him that his ignorance of even the most basic customs and regulations were an inexhaustible source for complications.

He scanned the large information panel: _Automotive Engineering_, C_ivil Engineering, Coastal Engineering, Electrical Engineering, Electronic Engineering_, and a dozen of other "engineerings". Whatever they were, the names didn't sound helpful to Draco. He skipped to the second floor: _Marine Engineering, Marine Science, Maritime Science, Nautical Science, Oceanography_... _Biosciences, Environmental Science, Ecology, Geology_... _Computer Science, Computer Technology, Internet Technology_...

It went on like this. What on earth were "software development" or "digital media"?

He gave up on the directory and walked to his favourite reading corner. There, he took a random book from the shelf and inspected it. It dealt with numbers, especially prime numbers.

To his surprise, the Muggles knew about the renowned Greek Arithmancer Eratosthenes of Cyrene and his method of sieving out prime numbers.

The next surprise was a footnote, stating that there was no scientific basis for the widespread believe of 13 being an unlucky number. Draco wholeheartedly agreed. 13 was rarely an omen, and in the few cases where it could be considered one, the implications weren't very grave.

Further references to the magical properties of prime numbers were not made, and phone numbers or postcodes weren't mentioned at all. He put the book back.

The whole shelf as well as the adjacent ones seemed dedicated to Arithmancy, or more exactly, to sundry Muggle versions thereof.

Elsewhere, he found books about the construction of houses or bridges, of furniture, ships, and all sorts of dubious machinery. There were thousands of them.

Other books appeared to be full of gibberish:

_Var .. i : integer;  
Begin  
... clrscr;  
... i := 0;  
... for i := 0 to 15 do Begin  
... i := i + 1;  
... writeln ('result =', i);  
... End;  
End._

Now, what was anyone to make of _that_?

However, explaining such writings away as clear proof of Mugglish inanity seemed just the tiniest bit too easy. Who said this wasn't a secret language known only to well-chosen insiders? Draco could see the benefits: You could put restricted information openly on the shelves because people who were not supposed to learn anything from the books in question could read them as long as they pleased but be still none the wiser.

After a while, he came across a section of grammar books and dictionaries. There was also a small selection of books written in foreign languages. He picked a French one and read a few lines. His French was rusty but, sitting down, he read on to find out how well versed he still was in this language.

Slowly but steadily, his skill returned. He read carefully, and he took notes as it had always been his habit when perusing textbooks or other worthwhile books.

He was indeed mildly intrigued by the report about a journey undertaken by a Constantinopolitan named Kéraban. The man was a merchant and dealt in tobacco.

Tobacco was an ingredient used in a few select potions with poisonous effects. However, the text focussed on neither potions nor tobacco. The main concern seemed to be the wedding of Kéraban's nephew to the young heiress Amasia. Said girl had to get married _before_ she turned seventeen, or else she would not inherit an apparently large sum of Turkish money.

Draco had doubts whether this was legal, but he had to allow that the only Muggle law he knew for certain was the one about not sleeping on the beach. Also, Turkey was a far-away country. The laws there might differ from British ones.

...

Draco returned day after day to read on but didn't truly realise that he had set himself a task before he was nearly halfway through the book. His progress was rather sluggish at the beginning. By and by, however, he had to consult dictionary and grammar books less often. Already at breakfast, he dwelt on the subtleties of French grammar, and when he went jogging in Hind Green late in the evening, he mulled over the events about which he had read during the day.

The report took several dramatic turns as another man – of allegedly noble descent – kidnapped the bride in order to force her to marry him. Whereas Kéraban's nephew seemed to have genuine feelings for Amasia, the kidnapper's sole motivation was the wealth. The concept of marrying for money sounded uncomfortably familiar to Draco, and the same went for Kéraban's firm resolve to adhere to tradition no matter how outrageously high the cost might be.

He kept on reading nonetheless, and when he closed the book for the last time he did so in an oddly content mood. There were two sources for the unusual sentiment: The conclusion – Amasia married Kéraban's nephew rather than the aristocrat who didn't care a jot for her well-being – and the fact that he had managed to read an entire book in French. His mother would be proud of him.

Or not.

Getting an admonition for wasting time on Muggle rubbish was more likely. He pushed the thought aside and went to have a look at the other French books on the shelf.

There was one advertising the sights of Paris. Several books dealt with sundry wars – he didn't even touch them – and one was about exploring the seas and searching for hitherto unknown animals. The author had added scores of pictures. It was a pity none of them moved. Seeing all these bizarre creatures swim back and forth would have been entertaining.

...

When Draco went home that evening, he looked for the first time consciously at the letter displayed in a small glass case that sat on the counter at the exit.

It was written in French.

...

55. "Qui Peut Traduire Cette Lettre?"

Essentially, the writer of the letter promised the recipient to accommodate a mutual friend while said friend stayed in Paris to visit an exhibition. This was preceded by detailed inquiries after the recipient's well-being as well as after the health of diverse family members and followed up by another lengthy sequence of polite phrases.

That was all. There was nothing particularly exciting about that letter.

He scrutinized the lines, trying to decide whether the writer had used a goose-quill or a swan-quill when he suddenly had the creepy feeling of being watched.

He turned around and found himself face to face with one of the librarians.

He took half a step backwards.

She smiled.

"Hi there," she said. "You looked pretty absorbed right now. Could you figure anything out?"

"Err... yes," he said, somewhat taken aback.

"You did? What is the letter about?"

He told her. While he spoke, her smile gradually vanished and made room for an expression of astonishment.

"I'm impressed," she said.

"Thanks," he said softly.

"I've been looking for someone with your skills for weeks."

He gave a curt nod, wondering how he could end this conversation without annoying her. She was, according to the badge on her cream-coloured linen jacked, the head librarian.

"Would you be interested in earning a few pounds?" she asked, pointing to a piece of white cardboard placed next to the encased letter. The question _Qui Peut Traduire Cette Lettre?_ was carefully printed on it.

"I'm sorry. I do not understand," he said firmly. He wasn't sure at all where this was going.

"Well, I'm not able to make extra expenses for the translations" – she paused, apparently thinking something over – "but I can pay you the same way as other part-timers. Perhaps four hours a week? Or two if you are too busy revising for the exams? What do you say?"

He was at a loss for words. She was offering him a job – that much was obvious. But why? What was she taking him for?

"I _am_ aware that translating hand-written letters is not the same as tidying up shelves or running errands, but unfortunately, I can't offer more," the head librarian went on. "I have to balance the budget."

He shook his head and took another half-step backwards.

He had enough money to cover his daily expenses. Why would he want to work for her?

"Well, it was worth a try," she sighed. "After all, you're the first person who apparently can read such writing without difficulty. I need somebody who can discern the scribble _and_ is good at French. For a moment, I thought I had found in you the perfect candidate for the job. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

She turned away.

He stared at her retreating back.

Malfoys didn't work for other people.

Generations of Malfoys had led a life of ease and leisure. Even though the wealth had been taken away, the thought he might have to earn his living one day hadn't yet occurred to Draco. His focus had been on sorting out his past instead of imagining future scenarios in which he was brewing potions in the backroom of an apothecary's.

Besides, he had salvaged one last treasure from the wreckage of the Malfoy fortune – a rucksack full of British pounds. The Muggle money would sustain him for the time being.

Immersed in his thoughts, he walked down the stairs and out of the building.

Taking up a paid job... The idea stunned him. Were there other methods of getting your hands on money?

His father had occasionally bought a valuable book, piece of jewellery, or other heirloom off someone who was in financial difficulties and had sold it later for twice, or trice, or tenfold the sum to somebody else. His mother had disliked such activities, but she had never openly argued against them.

There was little doubt about how his mother proposed to restore the family to the former social status and what kind of contribution she expected of him. In her opinion, taking a job – _any_ job no matter how well paid or reputed – would bring further shame to the family whereas marrying a revolting but wealthy pure-blooded witch would be perfectly fine.

All of a sudden, anger rose, and its intensity made him cry out in frustration. Unable to contain himself, he swung his foot with full force at an empty milk container that happened to lie by the wayside. It lifted off the ground and soared through the air in a long, smooth arc. Narrowly avoiding a wastebasket, it landed about fifty yards from where he stood on the other side of the lawn.

There were cheers.

And catcalls as well.

Horrified, Draco looked about. He was surrounded by people who looked at him with blatant glee. His first impulse was to run, but every route was blocked by the crowd.

"Bad case of exam nerves, eh?" a gangly man well in his thirties grinned. Laughter and a chorus of sniggers followed his words.

"Shut it," Draco growled, feeling the embarrassment burning in his cheeks. Fury plus humiliation was a dangerous mixture. More often than not, it had made him lash out at people, insult them, hurt them. Whereas in former times the choking emotions had built up slowly, they now erupted like molten rock from a volcano.

He was aware of the muttering around him but couldn't really catch on. He felt his heart beat at twice its normal rate; his vision was blurred at the edges. Everything looked slightly unreal.

And his wrath was still mounting. It was transforming, too. A prickly feeling spread out from his right palm and sped up his arm. It seeped into his chest, into his whole body – all in a matter of seconds. Finding no outlet, the surge of raw magic converged and shot back down his wand arm.

He'd never leave the cell in Azkaban again if he attacked any of the blasted Muggles – the thought cut through at the very last moment. With a supreme effort, he forced the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist – an act of bravery he'd never have expected himself capable of. He knew before his nails dug into the flesh that it was too late to change his mind. The wave of fear found no time to wash over him before the unrefined curse left his fingertips, assaulting the only human being within reach. Searing pain rushed up his arm, travelled past throat and heart and turned his stomach into a knot of unspeakable pain.

He wanted to scream, but couldn't. There was darkness and complete silence. His heart didn't beat; all his body functions seemed to have stopped. There was only the agony in the middle of his belly.

And then it was gone. The pain didn't fade; it ended abruptly. There wasn't even a noticeable after effect.

He took a deep breath, thankful beyond measure that he still could breathe. There was nothing as unpredictable in its effects as a flare-up of raw magic.

"You all right?" the gangly man asked, looking slightly worried.

"Mind your own business," Draco snapped, relieved at how normal his voice sounded.

He turned and started to walk away, and the crowd actually parted to let him go.

He might have done unimaginable things to himself, he thought with a shudder. Perhaps he should count himself lucky that his natural magic was somewhat limited. He had never been able to bring off spectacular hexes that required power rather than skill.

What had triggered the outburst, anyway? By and large, the exchange with the librarian hadn't been much more awkward than unexpected interactions with Muggles usually were. Somehow, his reaction seemed vastly out of proportion.

He went to Hind Green where he kept jogging until he was too exhausted to feel upset about anything.

...

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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)


	21. Part 21

56. Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor and the Neolithic

He avoided the library and its immediate surroundings for several days.

He jogged in the park, or he strolled along the pedestrian precinct where he checked the shop windows for a suitable replacement for the grievously frayed jacked he had worn all last summer, the better part of the autumn, and this spring ever since the weather had become too warm for the parka. He took his time comparing the displayed pieces of clothing to what men wore in the streets before he made his decision.

For the first time in his life, he went to a barber's. However slowly his hair grew, after more than a year without Tribbs's meticulous attention he needed a haircut. The barber, a dark, thickset fellow with a strong accent, suggested all sorts of fancy hairstyles, but Draco insisted on a plain one – shoulder-length and middle parting. A plain appearance made going unnoticed easier.

...

Being busy with shopping and having his hair cut helped him to regain a state of moderate tranquillity. Wistfully, he recalled how content he had felt upon finishing the book and how quickly and completely the good mood had been destroyed. It took so little these days to throw him off balance.

Then again, he had always been prone to edginess. In former times, he had only been better at hiding it. He had also been quicker at soothing himself. When his father's blunt, ready-made answers hadn't sufficed, he had resorted to his mother's subtler views of the world.

But she had erred, too. Less often than his father and probably less severe, but erred she had.

_History_ _wouldn't_ _go_ _amiss_, _and_ _Muggle_ _Studies_ _is_ _an_ _absolute_ _must_...

Knowing when a holiday took place wouldn't harm, for example. Knowing more about postboxes or heating devices wouldn't be a bad thing, either. Maybe he should figure out what "phone numbers" actually were because more knowledge meant fewer unpleasant surprises.

...

At length, he mustered the courage to go back to the library. Of course, he wouldn't find books with titles like _How_ _to_ _Steer_ _Clear_ _of_ _Trouble_ _While_ _Hiding_ _Out_ _in_ _Muggle_ _Communities_ or _The_ _Essential_ _Guide_ _to_ _Muggle_ _Customs_. Some Muggle equivalent to _Hogwarts_: _A_ _History_ might be a good start.

He found the history section and browsed the books, determinedly ignoring everything with the word _war_ on the spine. He finally sat down with a thick volume called _English_ _History_ _from_ _the_ _Neolithic_ _to_ _the_ _Present_.

The Neolithic had been the period of domestication of both animals and plants. Five thousand years ago, the Britons had been farmers and artisans. Apparently, they had led peaceful lives. They had bred cattle and built wooden tracks across the land. They had mined for flint and had made axes and pottery. Stonehenge was mentioned, and the Author guessed correctly that it had been more than just observatory and calendar. What this "more" was, however, the man couldn't tell. Of course he couldn't.

The Neolithic was followed by Bronze Age and that, in turn, by Iron Age. By then, the Britons had mined for metals – copper, tin, and even gold – and had learned how to use them.

Two thousand years ago, things had changed. The Romans had come and ruled the country for four centuries. Later, other tribes had invaded the island – Angles, Saxons, Friesians, Jutes, Danes, and finally, the Normans. There was an ever-increasing number of battles and raids. There were bloodshed and destruction...

Draco skipped the pages, but it didn't get any better. Eventually, he gave up and jumped straight to the last chapter, the one he supposed to be about the present. The book had been written in 1953, though, and ended with the coronation of a new queen. Her name was Elizabeth II and she reigned over many countries, including such exotic places as Barbados.

Draco took a banknote out and compared the lady depicted on it with the – unmoving – pictures of the coronation ceremony. The woman was the same, if visibly older.

With a sigh, he put the book back on the shelf. He'd spent the whole day reading, but what had he learned that would help him master everyday Muggle life?

...

He regretted his refusal to translate the French letters. Letters were real-life stuff – he had passed up a perfectly good chance to get some first-hand insight into Muggle affairs. While he ate at the dining hall, he pondered whether to apply for the job or not.

Had Malfoys ever worked for payment? He wasn't entirely sure, but he knew that they had stooped much lower. They had _served_. Even worse, he had been proud to serve. In the beginning, he had been genuinely proud to be a part of this grand, big scheme.

In truth, there had been nothing magnificent about it. His father and he had served an evil monster – without any payment whatsoever, without any reward whatsoever, only for the chance of not being slaughtered on the spot. He couldn't possibly sink any lower by translating letters.

Payment wasn't the objective, anyway. His aim was to gather useful information. His mother should be able to see the distinction. Then again, why should he tell her in the first place? She didn't need to learn about him taking up paid work.

He absently watched the commotion that ensued at the neighbouring table as a girl spilled a whole glass of brown liquid onto her blouse. With a high-pitched shriek, she jumped up. Once she stood, she started to giggle, and all her friends joined in. Then, never entirely ceasing to giggle, the girls made some altogether pointless attempts to undo the damage.

He gazed at them, thinking they should allow the blouse to soak in lukewarm water for a while since they couldn't use _Tergeo_, a nifty spell to deal with such mishaps.

The girls soon left the dining hall, and he went back to brooding over the question of how to approach the head librarian. Should he apologise? Perhaps not; he hadn't done anything wrong. But could he just walk up to her and ask without preliminaries to be given the job? Was this good manners?

...

In the early morning hours, he woke from an exciting dream.

He had dreamt about the girl who had spilled her drink. In his dream, he had seen what he had only sub-consciously perceived while awake – how her blouse had clung most peculiarly to her torso, and that she had worn nothing beneath that wet blouse.

In short, the wetness had begot more wetness. He didn't mind, not at all. It had been so long since he'd had this kind of dream. Save for the one about dancing with Pansy on the beach, there had been none in nearly two years.

...

57. Getting a Job

"Mrs Highbury?"

He had waited the whole morning for the head librarian to appear. She looked strained and busy; her only response was one raised eyebrow. Although he wasn't sure whether plunging on was a good idea, he did. He had made up his mind to ask for the job, and he had to do it now before the resolve left him.

"My apologies for disturbing you, Mrs Highbury," he said. "You were looking for somebody who is able to translate French letters. Is the job still available?"

Instantly, her face lit up.

"You want to give them a try?" she said enthusiastically, putting down the papers she had been shuffling. "We talked about these letters the other week, didn't we? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I forgot your name."

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

"Mr Malfoy, right." She smiled. "Does that sound slightly French? Do you happen to have French relatives?"

His father had always dismissed speculations about a Norman origin of his name as pure nonsense. However, seen in the light of what he had read the previous day, such an interpretation couldn't be ruled out.

"I'm not sure. My ancestor Pavo was born near Chichester on March 1, 1102. He was the second son of one Guiot. Apart from the year of his death, 1107, I know nothing about Guiot. It was the time of Norman reign, but that alone doesn't yet prove Norman roots."

He fell silent because her eyes grew wider with every word he spoke. She said nothing, but continued to appraise him.

He swallowed.

"Is my family background relevant for the job?" he asked tentatively. He couldn't tell her much more without violating the _International_ _Statute_ _of_ _Wizarding_ _Secrecy_.

She rallied.

"No, of course not. It's just that I've never met somebody before who knew his lineage a thousand years back. Please, do come in," she said, ushering him into the area reserved for the staff. Her smile was back. "So, let me guess what you are studying. History? Mediaeval History?"

"History can be kind of interesting, yes," he muttered. It was his customary lie, but he was treading on thin ice here. He knew neither the name of the History professor nor where the classroom was. At best, he could say a sentence or two about the Bronze Age.

"The letters should delight you, then," she already went on, while she hastily cleared dirty cups, sundry stacks of brochures, and various, small objects of unknown purpose off a desk. "You can sit here while you copy the letters, Mr Malfoy. Cora is on maternity leave until January."

"Thank you," he said, inclining his head.

"That's alright. So, let's have a look at the letters, shall we?"

She led him to a huge filing cabinet nearby, simultaneously explaining about a late professor who had bequeathed a vast collection of books to the university.

"Naturally, the task of cataloguing fell to my staff and me. In addition to the books – precious first editions and signed copies included – we got two large boxes filled with letters. Most of them are too old to be the late professor's own correspondence."

She took three letters out of the cabinet and handed them to Draco. Each one was enclosed in thin, translucent plastic. The material felt smooth and flexible to his fingers.

"I would ask you not to remove them from their protection," she continued. "We don't yet know whether they are valuable and of scientific interest. In order to find out we need to read them, which is where the trouble starts: They _are_ old; in some cases, the paper is on the verge of disintegrating. They are hand-written, and about three quarters of them are in French. I put my little advertisement up in early March but so far, few people have tried their hand on them. Those who did gave up soon, complaining about illegibility and old fashioned language."

Draco glanced at the letters. The handwriting was perfectly tidy, and the language in the one he had read the week before hadn't struck him as anything out of the ordinary. It had been the same French he had read in the book about the tobacco merchant and, essentially, the same French he had learned from his mother.

"I didn't see such difficulties," he said.

"All the better, Mr Malfoy," she beamed. "Well, I want you to make a word-for-word copy of each letter first. This way, we can return the originals to the safety of the filing cabinet, and you can take all the time you need for the translations. That is to say, 'all the time you need' is a bit of an exaggeration. I can pay you for a maximum of five hours a week. I'm sorry for that. We're nearing the end of the term, and the budget is tight."

Talking about money had wiped the jovial smile off her face. She looked almost worried now.

"It's alright," he said. "The money isn't the point."

"Fancy that," she said, frowning, "a student who doesn't need money."

"Maybe I said that wrong. I meant to say that I'm interested in the letters themselves. I think they'll be worth reading. Letters are real-life stuff, and I'm looking for answers... about customs and etiquette... " He was babbling, and he knew it. To his astonishment, her smile was back. "Does that make sense to you?"

"Of course, it does," she replied. Her smile had become an actual grin. "Mr Malfoy, if you read more of these letters than you translate in the end, I won't mind. It shall be far from me to admonish a student for studying."

"Err..." He could sense a breathtaking amount of genuine goodwill in her, a goodwill that went even beyond the spoken words. A distinct warmth rose up the sides of his neck and further to his cheeks.

"Don't worry," she said kindly. "I mean it."

"Thanks," he said, not knowing what else to reply.

"You're welcome. If truth be told, I never quite believed those few pounds would make much of a bait. The chance of getting authentic facts is probably a better incentive. History books hail the exploits of famous personalities, but they usually ignore the daily toil of millions of ordinary people. I hope you _will_ find what you're looking for," she said. "Well then, the question of payment aside, I suppose you'll prefer to work at your leisure?"

"I haven't-" he started and stopped short. It would seem odd if he said he hadn't any other responsibilities. She certainly expected him to attend classes and, at this time of the year, sit exams. "I can be here at eight in the morning."

"Right. Come with me, please, I'll introduce you to Jeff Oldfield. He has a key for the filing cabinet. I can't be around all the time, but I'm sure he will be happy to help you with any problems or questions."

Jeffrey Oldfield was a podgy man of indeterminable age and rolled around in a wheelchair. He shook hands with Draco and suggested straight away going on first name terms with each other.

Draco, intent on behaving inconspicuously, agreed.

Before she left, Mrs Highbury spoke about arranging for a "personal computer account" and a permanent password for Draco. However, since the instructions were for Jeffrey and not for him, Draco didn't worry about them.

He sat down at the desk assigned to him and started to copy letters.

...

All in all, Draco became quickly accustomed to his new occupation.

He arrived at the library at eight in the morning, read several letters, copied the most interesting ones, returned the originals to the cabinet, and gave the key back to Jeffrey. Then, fetching grammar books and a dictionary on the way, he went with the copies to his favourite reading corner and set to work.

The content of the letters varied widely. Some were strictly about personal matters. Once he found what could only be called a love letter. The letters dealing with the use of either steam-power or electricity were the most instructive ones. Although each letter delivered only a snippet of knowledge, Draco hoped he would eventually find out how the _electric_ _bulb_ that illuminated his desk actually worked.

He collected the transcripts and his translations in a folder together with an index that listed the main topics.

To keep his good standing with the head librarian, he made for her second copies of a number of letters as well as copies of the English versions. She always seemed to be very pleased with his work. Once a week, she handed him an envelope containing twenty pounds and had him receipt the payment.

A month went by. The library staff accepted Draco's presence without ado. They answered his greeting in a friendly manner, made the occasionally remark about the weather or other insignificant things, but never bothered him with attempts at serious conversation.

Exchanges with Jeffrey were usually brief and to the purpose. Most times, the man simply let Draco have the key to the filing cabinet and went back to chatting up patrons or library assistants, provided they were female. Apparently, Jeffrey was slapdash about his duties in a general way. He kept forgetting about arranging for the password and the mysterious account. He apologised to Draco for his negligence for the first few days, then he didn't mention the matter anymore. Draco, not knowing what he would need a password for, likewise left the topic alone.

Only once Draco got involved with the staff on a slightly more personal level. Mrs Smith, the elderly librarian who had seen one of the Fiendfyre sketches a few weeks earlier, brought home-baked cake with her. She invited her colleagues to share it and insisted on Draco attending the gathering as well. He obeyed and sat with the others, eating a slice of scrumptious cake and listening to a totally incomprehensible debate about kitchen tools. At least, he imagined "microwave ovens" to be some sort of kitchen equipment.

Apart from that event, nothing interrupted his daily routine until he tried to pay Mrs Bates the rent for July.

...

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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)


	22. Part 22

Author's note: I'm sorry for keeping you waiting. Real life kept getting into the way of writing fan fiction. However, here is the next chapter. Enjoy!

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...

58. Shocks and Strawberries

It was early in the morning, and Mrs Bates was bustling about in her usual manner.

Draco put the little stack of banknotes on the sideboard as he always did.

"For July," he said.

Mrs Bates almost dropped the teapot. She gaped at the money and then at him.

"B-but Mr Malfoy," she stammered. "Aren't you going home for the summer?"

"My home is here," he said and added in the privacy of his mind, _for_ _the_ _time_ _being_.

"But..." she faltered. Her hands shook so badly that she spilled tea onto the tablecloth before she finally managed to put the pot down.

"Is there a problem?" Draco asked, a vague feeling of unease creeping over him.

"Oh, Mr Malfoy, I'm so terribly sorry! Look, I can't afford three empty rooms for more than ten weeks. That's why I always let the rooms to holidaying families during summer. Two have already booked in advance," she spluttered, and it was Draco's turn to be shocked.

"You're kicking me out! Why?" he exclaimed a lot louder than intended. The two sullen businessmen who sat at the nearest table looked up from their kippers and scowled at him, but he didn't care. "I've done nothing wrong! I've always paid the rent on time!"

"But I'm not throwing you out, dear! Of course, you can come back when term starts."

"And where do you suppose I will stay until then?" Draco snapped. "Just for your information – it's _against_ _the_ _law_ to sleep on the beach!"

She looked bewildered.

"But why… Sleeping on the beach? What are you on about? Why aren't you going _home_?"

The way she stressed the last word gave him a jolt. _Home_? What _home_?

His home was here... or he had none at all. The stupid, fat cow – she was destroying his tranquillity, nay, his whole life! How did she dare!

She was prattling on, but Draco didn't listen. He couldn't. Whether it was with fury or with panic, he trembled where he stood. Thoughts surfaced that he hadn't been thinking for a very long time – _Tremugenu_, _Densaugeo_, _Capillis_ _Privari_, _Furnunculus_, _Tarantallegra_, _Cruditas_... He shuddered. There was the prickly feeling again, spreading out from his wand hand and travelling up his arm.

Fighting down the upsurge of raw magic, Draco had a vision of his aunt. Cackling madly, Bellatrix Lestrange cast a Cruciatus Curse at the woman in front of him. Spine-chilling laughter filled the room like something tangible while the apparition whirled round and round and cast Cruciatuses in every direction – at the businessmen, at Mr Wong, at him. For a split second, it felt real – there were the all-consuming pain, the feeling of white-hot knives piercing every inch of skin, the horrible sensation of bones on fire...

_You_ _need_ _to_ _really_ _want_ _to_ _cause_ _pain_... _you_ _need_ _to_ _want_ _to_ enjoy_ it_.

Bile rose from his stomach. He choked on it, feeling nauseous. Did he want to see Angela Bates writing on the floor in agony? Did he?

He spun on his heels and ran.

...

He kept running for hours, panic and guilt battling in his chest for dominance. Panic screamed about just having lost his shelter and guilt cried that there had been a time when he would have laughed – actually _laughed!_ – at Mrs Bates being tortured.

In the end, neither emotion won. He succumbed to exhaustion and queasiness and sank onto a bench in the shade of a huge oak tree.

He tried to think straight, but it was to no avail. His stomach was churning; he hadn't eaten all day. He hadn't even drunk anything, which was probably the reason why he felt dizzy.

He had sat on the bench for about ten minutes when he spotted Mrs Bates walking through the park. She carried a bowl. And she was moving towards him.

He looked down at his knees. He didn't want to see her. She had ruined everything. She had wiped out the spark of hope that he had been kindling. She had destroyed within the blink of an eye what he had been trying so hard to build for the past twelve months – a moderately safe and organised life or, at any rate, a passable imitation thereof.

He heard the soft, crunching noise of shoes on sand as she drew nearer. He told himself to get up and stalk off, but he was afraid he'd faint. He really felt sick.

She sat down next to him without asking his consent; he stared down at his knees, pointedly ignoring her.

Suddenly, the bowl that she had been carrying appeared in his narrowed field of view. It was filled to the rim with fresh strawberries, and she put it gently into his lap.

"There. You haven't eaten all day, Mr Malfoy," she said softly but with a chiding undertone that seemed completely out of place. "And I'm truly sorry."

When he reacted neither to her little speech nor to the offered food, she reached over and removed the thin film of transparent plastic that covered the bowl.

"Come on, don't act like a sulking child. Where are your manners?"

Her words, despite the mention of manners, might have failed to get through to him, but the smell that wafted up from the strawberries defeated him within an instant. He ate with far less reverence than the delicious fruit deserved.

Squashing the last one with his tongue, he shot Mrs Bates a sidelong glance.

She looked tense.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "If you'd asked in advance, it would have been easier to organise something for you."

The necessity of talking to her about his affairs had never occurred to him. It was always the same – he didn't see things coming until they hit him fair and square in the face. All Hogwarts students went home for the summer – why should Muggle schools have different regulations?

"Thanks for the strawberries," he said after a long minute of awkward silence.

"That's all right. You skipped breakfast, and it's already time for lunch now," Mrs Bates replied. "Now then, _I_ could have asked you about _your_ _plans_ as well. It simply never crossed my mind. Mr Wong will move out this weekend. He is leaving for good because he's going to work for a consulting enterprise on the continent and, honestly, no student has ever wanted to stay for the summer months. But there's always a first, isn't it?"

She paused, waiting for him to say something.

"I was planning on staying here for the next four years," he stated.

"The next _four_ years! So you're already planning on doing a Master's degree, do y- ... wait, what about the holidays? Are you saying you mean to stay for those times, too?

"I do. Or did, to be precise."

"You're still at odds with your parents, right?" she asked. "Is that why you don't want to go home?"

He took a deep breath. Then he said as calmly as possible, "Do yourself a favour, Mrs Bates, and refrain from mentioning my parents."

"Sorry," Mrs Bates said quickly. "I didn't know it was _that_ bad."

He shook his head. He needed to keep the two worlds apart. He had troubles here, and he had troubles there, and each set of troubles was enough on its own.

"All right, it's none of my business to snoop into your family affairs," Mrs Bates went on. "Let's sort out the problem at hand. I checked the reservations for the next months. I can give you one of the first-floor rooms for the first days of July and later again after July 26. The weeks in between will be a bit tricky. I phoned a number of acquaintances who let rooms, too, and I found somebody with a vacancy for that time. You'll have to move back and forth between houses, but it's not very far – Old Mansion Lane, just on the other side of the ferry."

"On the other side of the ferry!" Draco exclaimed, sitting up straight. Maybe there was a solution after all!

...

59. Reprise

Walking the distance from Trethwyn to the university and back again in one day would be a challenge. Perhaps he could pull that off every other day with a day of rest in between. He needed to know the exact schedule of the ferry, he had to figure out where to eat breakfast without having to go in the opposite direction first, and he had to notify Mrs Highbury of his altered working hours. Here, his thoughts stopped short.

In all likelihood, the head librarian was taking it for granted the same way as Mrs Bates did that students left for the summer. Anything else would give rise to questions.

He let out a sigh. He was going to miss the work.

"It's really not very far," Mrs Bates said pleadingly. "Given the number of jogging rounds you do every day, you should be well able to walk there. And I can organise a car for the luggage."

"Thanks. But I think I'll stay at Mr Penwith's lodging house in Trethwyn. I'll try, anyway. If that doesn't work out, I shall come back and take you up on your offer."

"Trethwyn!" She smiled for the first time that day. "Now, that's a lovely idea! Trethwyn is such a nice seaside place."

"It is," he agreed.

"So, this is settled?" she asked.

He hoped it was. He hoped they could get back on good terms with each other. He had to make himself accept that his landlady had meant no harm. She had simply acted on what _her_ experience had taught her to do.

Quite another problem was how he had comported himself. What was the phrase she had used – sulking child? Well, maybe here was another hitherto diligently ignored truth. Even Zabini had called him a spoilt brat at times.

"I apologise," he said with an effort. A formal apology shouldn't be that hard to utter but, for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely, the shame was genuine. "I apologise for behaving like I did this morning."

"It's all right, Mr Malfoy. You were upset and raised your voice a bit. So what? You mustn't be too strict with yourself. We all have our weaknesses," she answered, much to his surprise. "You know, I was completely baffled at first. But then I realised that to you the matter must feel like I was really throwing you out without warning. Not knowing where to sleep the next day must be frightening."

He nodded mutely. She seemed content with her own explanation so he oughtn't say anything that made her think twice.

"When may I come back?" he asked after a moment.

"Well, dear, be back before courses will start by mid-September," Mrs Bates said eagerly. "And as for your belongings, the stuff you don't want to take with you – winter clothing and textbooks and all the other bits and pieces you don't need during the holidays – well, I have lockers in the basement. You can have one of them until you're back."

...

He left for Trethwyn two days later.

The little village hadn't changed much. The lone chestnut tree was a bit bigger, the tourist office had a new roof, and one of the bakery girls was heavily pregnant. The well in the small square was as dry as it had been, the cars crawled tentatively along the cobbled streets, and the landscape was as wide and windswept as Draco remembered it.

Mr Penwith was feeding his chickens when Draco arrived.

The old man was obviously happy to see him. When he heard about staying until September 12, his happiness increased even further. He shuffled off and returned with the keys, a clothesline, and a stack of bedlinen. He handed these things over to Draco and told him to make himself comfortable.

Everything was as it had been – Draco occupied room number two, and smells of boxwood and thyme drifted in through the open window. He stood there for almost half an hour, gazing down at the neglected garden below and breathing in the fresh, salty air. He was looking forward to sketching coastal landscape instead of city vistas and also to swimming. Swimming was what he had missed most. But the shock of having to leave Hind Green Close all of a sudden hadn't completely faded yet. Mrs Bates had punctured his little bubble – the most recent one of his bubbles. It had proved exactly as fragile as all its predecessors. He longed for something solid, something that would last.

...

Being back in Trethwyn turned out a mixed blessing.

Sketching was fine, and the swimming did him well, but roaming the hills brought back the very thoughts he had been thinking a year ago while walking the same paths. Every now and then, the same internal terror flared up as well. On such days, he wondered whether it had been a downright stupid idea to come here again. Most times, however, he could muster the strength to re-assess the old problems and unsolved mysteries. He marvelled at his grandfather's amazing foresight and mused about his father's flawed views of the world. He thought about how Pansy and Zabini had turned their backs on him and how Slughorn or McGoggleall or the Carrows had despised him – for different reasons maybe but with the same ardour. He thought again about Crabbe's ruined potion. He thought again about how he had failed to see the warning signs. By and large, he came to the same conclusion as before: He had been blind and gullible and above all, self-deceptive.

...

Excluding his internal struggles, the days passed without major incident. They started with eating breakfast at the baker's – the shop assistant had her baby in early August – and ended, unless the sea was too rough, with a nice, tiring swim after sundown.

He did a lot of sketching. He still produced pictures of mortal fear and Chimera-headed flames but aside from them, he soon had also a sizable collection of pictures showing scenic views of the coast from Maiden's Cliff in the east to the promontory west of Trethwyn, the village itself, or plants that grew alongside the Coast Path.

Once a week, he undertook long walks in search of post offices or branch offices of bank houses to which he hadn't been before. Over time, he managed to change the better part of those outdated banknotes that he hadn't left in the locker at Hind Green Close.

Even though it would seem at a cursory look that nothing had changed in comparison to his first stay in Trethwyn, something was significantly different. Draco was pretty sure the women had worn the same kind of beach outfit the previous year, but back then, it hadn't affected him in the least. Now it did. His body's reaction to the display of female attributes was prompt and intense.

That was why he kept away from the more peopled parts of the beach and sought out stretches where he was more or less alone. However, no matter how carefully he avoided the immediate sight of sparsely clad women, their images would appear in his dreams, and the dreams would result in stained sheets.

Long hours of physical exercise – helpful as they were in fending off nightmares – seemed to have no effect on this kind of dream. Besides, his resolve to fight them wavered right from the start. If all the girls and gorgeous young women featuring in his dreams were Muggles without exception, so what? Whatever happened in his dreams happened there and only there. Dreams were as private as anything could get, especially such ones. No real-life action was going to ensue and no-one would ever know. His mother was not nearly as good as Legilimency as he had become at Occlumency.

As time went by, he also stopped feeling embarrassed about having to put freshly laundered pyjama trousers on the clothesline in the morning. Mr Penwith never even looked.

...

60. Bloodied Talons

It was the last Sunday of August. The weather was nice – warm and dry with a pleasant, steady breeze blowing from the southwest – and the beach was packed with people.

Draco sat on a grassy patch above the cliffs and sketched a group of grown men fooling around with their little would-be boats. He had picked up the term _surfboards_ somewhere.

This was one of the little pieces of information that he had gathered during the last few months. Another snippet of knowledge concerned the overhead ropes that led from one tall wooden pole to the next, marring the beauty of the landscape thereby. They weren't ropes put up for birds to sit on; they were _wires_. They carried _electricity_.

Electricity was apparently kept in very small houses that had no windows. Half of them didn't even have a door. Up until a short time ago, he had simply avoided them cautioned by the black and yellow signs saying things like _Keep_ _out!_ and _Danger!_ _High_ _voltage_. Often the signs showed also a triangle that framed a man struck down by lightning, and Draco had recently found out why: According to one of the French letters, electricity consisted of tamed lightning. It was used for illumination purposes and for making machines work.

But the writer of the letter had also maintained that electricity was only innocuous as long as it was properly caged because it would always try to break free and become wild and dangerous again. Safety depended on _sufficient_ _and_ _durable_ _insulation_.

His knowledge still being superficial, Draco didn't know what sufficient and durable insulation was or how it could be achieved. Had the art been mastered since the letter had been written in 1892? Judging from the number of overhead wires, electricity seemed to be in wide use at the present time.

Nevertheless, a tamed dragon was still a dragon, and the many stern warnings were surely there for a reason. Once, he had witnessed a mother yelling at her two toddlers who had been chalking on one of the small electricity houses: _Come_ _here_ _this_ _instant_! _There_ _is _electric current _in_ _there!_ _Do_ _you_ _want_ _it_ _to_ _come_ _out?_ The children had looked thoroughly horrified.

Draco could see the woman's point: teasing something – animate or inanimate – that was trapped was never a wise thing to do.

He paused. His hand, holding a burgundy-red crayon, hovered an inch above the paper. With consternation, he stared at the blood-dripping talons he had sketched instead of surfboards.

The memory welled up as red and hot as blood from torn flesh. Mocking a captured animal – wasn't that exactly what he had done?

He had wanted to impress. Overconfident and full of juvenile ignorance, he hadn't reckoned with the beast attacking him like a fury out of hell.

The blood had gushed from the deep slash so fast and in such great quantity he had feared he would bleed to death. His arm had gone limp; he hadn't been able to move it anymore. And nobody had even looked! Everybody had been gawking at the stupid oaf of a gamekeeper and his blasted bird.

The blood-loss hadn't been the main problem, though. Two standard doses of Blood-Replenishing Potion had made up for it. But Hippogriff talons had magical properties and that was why the injury hadn't just been a simple gash. Unknown magic had been at work in the wound. Snape had eventually provided a special brew that had stopped it. Unfortunately, the potion had suppressed all kinds of magic, which had made it impossible for Pomfrey to speed up the healing process with spells.

He had regained the full use of his wand-hand, but it had been a close call. He had listened in to what the nurse had told his parents, and her words had scared him a great deal.

The day after, he had put up a show of bravery and anger. Well, the anger had been genuine. Apart from that, his behaviour had been an act – Malfoys did not show weakness; Malfoys did not cry. Aged thirteen, he had believed this to be one of the most fundamental principles he had to live up to.

The thought that the accident might have been, at least partially, his own fault hadn't crossed his mind. On the contrary, his father raving about how that insufferable excuse for a teacher deliberately endangered the life and health of students had strengthened his conviction that whatever a Malfoy did was well done. If things didn't work out as planned, somebody had hampered the effort by wilful naughtiness or grievous incompetence.

Eagerly, he had awaited his father's success in having Hagrid removed from Hogwarts.

Maybe he should have looked a bit harder. Back then, he had seen the ensuing activities as an indication of how precious he was to his father. He had felt treasured and important. Unlike the year before when his father had paved the way into the Quidditch team for him with a liberal sum of Galleons, Draco had ignored the fact that he and his well-being weren't his father's only considerations. His father had aimed for a higher goal than getting rid of Hagrid. His father's ambition had been to bring down Dumbledore as well, and he hadn't made a secret of it. Quite the reverse had been true – he had explained to Draco how Hagrid's failure should be held against Dumbledore because the old fool had given a teaching position to a person who didn't even have N.E.W.T.s.

But Draco hadn't allowed the not-so-flattering details to penetrate his thick skull. Like his adored father, he had preferred to disregard what he didn't want to see.

He sighed and put the crayon back into the box. Then he shredded the picture that showed the pair of bloodstained talons methodically to bits no bigger than a fingernail.

He had been such an idiot. He had been so ill-informed and ill-advised, so blind, so naive... Maybe he would feel less bad now if he had tried at least once in a while to check some of the ready-made notions and concepts with which he had grown up for their soundness. Regrettably, his brain had been too soaked with vainglorious ideas to work effectively.

Then again, how much astuteness was to be expected of a thirteen-year-old, give or take three months?

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

More notes:

(1) Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)

(2) _Capillis_ _Privari_ is the Latin term for _hair_ _loss_. _Tremugenu_ is an attempt to translate _Jellylegs_ into something that sounds like an actual jinx.


	23. Part 23

61. Emergency

September had come. There were only about twenty-four hours left to send birthday greetings to his father, but Draco hadn't written him yet nor was he going to write now. He couldn't put a letter that was addressed to _Lucius_ _Malfoy_, _Inmate_ _of_ _Azkaban_ into a Muggle mailbox, could he?

He couldn't buy an owl, either. Even if he had Galleons and found a retailer, he wouldn't be allowed to. The _Code_ _of_ _Conduct_ prohibited any purchase of living creatures with magical abilities. No exceptions were listed. Thinking of this, he realised at long last why his mother had bought an owl from Lisboa. She had a penfriend there – a former classmate who had married a wealthy Portuguese wizard.

He sighed. He had also failed to send his mother birthday greetings last December. The lack of an owl was a valid excuse in this case as well but not the true reason. The truth was that he had completely forgotten about her anniversary. Fever-ridden, he hadn't known what time of day it was, let alone what day of the month.

There hadn't been any communication between them since he had fled from Runcorn's cottage. Given that his mother did know he no longer had an owl and was therefore unable to initiate contact, there was only one explanation. She snubbed him. After months of waiting in vain for her owl he had become sure of that. Pointedly ignoring him had always been her favourite method of punishment. For a chance to explain himself and to appease her he depended entirely on her owl, but Lissy hadn't turned up once ever since last Yule.

And if the little screech owl came today to carry a letter to Azkaban, what would he say to his formerly idolised father? _Father_, _I_ _hope_ _my_ _lines_ _will_ _find_ _you_ _in_ _health_ _and_ _sanity_...

Engrossed in his gloomy thoughts, Draco set off for the baker's. He didn't pay attention to the couple of hens that strutted down the lane. He had already marched on for another thirty yards when he finally realised something was amiss: The hens had escaped, and Mr Penwith wasn't going to be happy about that.

Draco turned to chase them back in. Admittedly, he wasn't an expert at chicken care, and the silly birds downright panicked. Luckily, they ran where they were supposed to go despite their exaggerated show of wild wing-flapping and mad clucking. This was why he, for a short moment, felt confident to solve the problem on his own. Then, however, he saw that nearly all chickens were outside the enclosure. The reason for the mass breakout was easy to detect – the gate was ajar. Something – no, some_one_ – prevented it from closing properly. Someone lay in an awkward position on the ground – and that person was none other than Mr Penwith!

Feeling a pang of terror, Draco rushed over to the motionless man and crouched down.

"Mr Penwith!" he cried. "Mr Penwith, answer me! Please!"

But there was no reaction. The old man just lay there and looked dead. Following impulse rather than acting consciously, Draco reached for the man's wrist. There was a pulse – faint and frighteningly erratic, but there.

Draco jumped to his feet and ran.

...

He had run like this before. Or maybe he hadn't. Whenever he had run, it had been different. Different reasons, different ends, different fears... He had run to get away from somewhere, from something, from somebody. Now he was running to reach a place.

He flung the door to the baker's open and yelled that Mr Penwith was very ill.

Except that all he got out was a strangled, inarticulate noise. Everybody turned to stare at him. Five people, six. There was almost always a queue now in the shop since one of the girls had gone on maternity leave. He fought for breath. His lungs burned.

"Mr Penwith," he panted. "Unconscious."

There was a change. The curiosity transmuted into attention.

"Mr Penwith is unconscious?" a plump, bald man in a grey cardigan asked.

Draco nodded, still panting.

"Has pulse. Faint... irg... irregular-"

The man – a villager; Draco had seen him before – whipped round and bellowed orders at the shop girl. Turning back to Draco, he asked, "Where is Mr Penwith now?"

"Chicken run," Draco wheezed. "Found... him... there."

The man gave a curt nod and hurried out of the shop before Draco had even finished his answer. The shop girl was holding a little plastic device – the sort that could make beeping noises – close to her face. For some strange reason, she explained the situation to that thing. She stated Mr Penwith's address twice and said something about possible heart failures or strokes. Everybody else watched her in silent approval.

Why wasn't anyone doing anything?

The memory rose so suddenly and with such brutal force, Draco slumped back against the wall. The intensity was crushing him. It wasn't just a memory; he was re-living the scene: No-one stirred, no-one lifted a finger, no-one said a single word to make things stop. No-one heard the pleading. On the contrary, there was laughter... spiteful, gleeful, malicious, revolting... And the snake, the huge, ghastly snake slithered along the table...

It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair. What were you to do in the face of impending murder if you were a lone teenager among twenty adults? What were you to do if you were alone among twenty people who were either bloodthirsty or cowed? Or who simply didn't care? She had pleaded with Snape, the poor, deluded woman...

It wasn't fair; it wasn't fair at all... And was it his fault again? Things had always had a tendency to be his fault... He had been blamed for all the times he had lost. He had been blamed for all the times he had tried and failed. He had been blamed for all the times he hadn't tried... It wasn't fair if losing was your only option. It wasn't fair in the least if you didn't have the power to stop things from happening.

He didn't want to be put in situations that were beyond his control because that simply wasn't fair. He didn't have the guts to stand up to a crowd. Did he have the guts to stand up to anyone?

"Mr Penwith needs help!" he choked out.

Somebody made a shushing noise; the shop girl raised her free hand in a quelling gesture and continued talking to the effing plastic device.

"Why don't you-" he whispered. Why did he never succeed in anything?

"Yes, Doctor Polkinghorne went straight there. He went by car so he should be there already," the girl said, raising her voice slightly. After a short pause, she added, "Sure. Thanks. Bye."

She put the plastic thing down and looked at Draco.

"Relax. The paramedics are on their way, and Doctor Polkinghorne should already be there," she said with a smile that seemed completely out of place to Draco. "It was quite a lucky thing he happened to be a bit late today."

Draco stared at her. Something seemed stuck in his throat. For the first time in nearly two years, he felt like he actually could cry.

"Doctor Polkinghorne," the girl said, her smile waning. "The gentleman in the knitted jacket. He's a specialist from the Royal District Hospital; internal specialist I think. He'll know what to do. He has to deal with that sort of thing every day."

It slowly dawned on Draco that the fat, bald man in the grey cardigan was some sort of healer. He let out a ragged sigh. Maybe he hadn't failed for once. A healer had gone to see Mr Penwith...

"Are you all right, love?" the girl asked. She sounded concerned. The other people in the shop were eyeing him with open curiosity. "Oh well, I'm afraid I don't even know your real name, calling you 'the young artist' all the time. That's so silly-"

He jerked himself away from the wall and dashed outside. The woes of his soul threatened to spill over, and he couldn't bear with onlookers. No sooner had he slammed the door behind him than tears sprang up in his eyes. He couldn't help it. And he didn't want to, either.

He broke into a run to get away from the baker's, away from the village. As he continued uphill, a large car overtook him. The vehicle was painted green and yellow and had blue, flashing lights on the roof. It stopped in front of Mr Penwith's house. Three smaller cars were already there. One of them was a police car.

He slowed down. His vision was blurred with tears.

He didn't feel up to facing anyone at the moment. He wanted to know whether Mr Penwith would be all right, but he couldn't bring himself to go any nearer. Instead, he left the lane and walked across a stretch of grassland. He sat down beneath a rampant hazel bush, rested his back against the earthwork of the hedge, and allowed the sobs to work their way out.

...

62. Breakdown

In between bouts of silent crying, he caught glimpses of the proceedings at Mr Penwith's.

In time, men in green and yellow overalls lifted a stretcher into the large car. Draco supposed that the person on the stretcher was Mr Penwith. The men got into the car as well, the healer Doctor Polkinghorne and a lady Draco had never seen before got each into one of the smaller cars, and all three cars started moving.

Only the police car remained where it was.

Soon after, sounds of hysteric clucking drifted over to Draco. There were urgent shouts of _Watch_ _out!_ or triumphant cries of _I've_ _got_ _one!_

Draco was surprised that collecting stray animals of somebody who had fallen ill was a concern of the police. Aurors probably wouldn't bother with something like that...

He was grateful, though. It would have taken him till noon to chase the hens back where they belonged, not to mention the vicious cock.

After a while, things went quiet and the policemen drove off in their car. Draco hadn't quite stopped crying during the past half-hour, but he hadn't entirely given in, either, while there were people within hearing distance.

Now that he finally had his solitude, he let out a single, anguished cry. Then he sobbed without restraint. The sobs were violent and painful and shook his whole body. He sank down onto the grass. It just happened to him – the crying and sobbing and snivelling just happened to him.

It was always the same. Things happened... to him, around him.

He was never prepared for them.

Events came thick and fast.

Spinning out of control.

Time and again.

All these fucking delusions of grandeur...

...Tangled, caged, _trapped_.

...Helpless. Powerless. Hopeless.

...Failure.

...Blame.

Worsening matters instead of improving them.

Never able to steer, never able to veer.

No brake, none, neither front nor rear.

Fallacy. Injury. Misery.

Agony.

The sobs grew in intensity until they became jerks, causing his limbs to flail. Inside, his soul trashed about just as wildly. He let it happen. Pain and sorrow gushed forth in violent torrents, twisting and buffeting his inner self in their floods. He let it happen.

The convulsions eventually subsided, allowing the tears to flow more steadily. When the tears had petered out as well, he felt warm and weightless.

Cosy.

Drowsy...

...

The sun was high in the sky when he woke up. His stomach was churning.

He picked himself up and looked around.

There was nobody there.

He had lain in the shade of the rampant bush, which was probably lucky. He wouldn't have to cure sunburn. His clothing, however, was sullied with dirt and snot.

He quickly made his way over to the lodging house, went into the bathroom, stripped, and stuffed his shirt and his trousers into the washbasin. He let lukewarm water flow into the basin until it was full to the rim.

Then he took a shower to wash the muck off his face and body. He wished he could cleanse his stained soul just as easily.

Of course, his towel was in his room upstairs. He went there as he was – dripping wet and in the buff. There wasn't anyone else here, so what the hell.

He put on his dressing gown, grabbed the bottle of liquid soap and went back down to the bathroom.

...

He took his time doing the laundry.

While his hands worked, he wondered what had triggered the breakdown. He had lost the ability to cry so many months ago. For countless times ever since, he had wished he could cry again. Yet, he hadn't been able to.

So why now? What had changed?

The fit had been different from the ones he'd had in the past.

Oh yes, he had cried in former times – often, far more often than even his mother would have tolerated if she had noticed. He had always been careful to hide his breakdowns because Malfoys did not show weakness. The Ghost Girl had been the first person – if she counted for a person – to see him cry since he had been a toddler. To his surprise, her presence had been comforting rather than embarrassing. He couldn't have given a reason for this back then, but he knew now. She hadn't ridiculed him for crying. She hadn't even scolded him. On the contrary, she had encouraged him.

_Go_ _on_, _it_ _helps_. _Don't_ _hold_ _back_.

Up to that night in her bathroom, he had only ever been told that crying was wrong. Boys didn't do it, especially if they were Malfoys. But the Ghost Girl's argument had held truer with reality – crying did help. While it didn't solve any actual problems, it still served to dull the pain, both mentally and physically.

_Tears_ _are_ _nature's_ _very_ _own_ _painkilling_ _potion_.

Yes, they were. And that was why he had broken the Malfoys-don't-cry-rule countless times. There had been periods when he had tried to adhere to it and to develop into the man he was expected to be. The pent-up frustration had found other outlets but only temporarily. He had ended up crying nonetheless. You were bound to lose if you fought nature itself.

He had cried in protest as a child when he didn't understand the world. Later, he had cried out his anger – anger with himself or with others. He had given in to the urge to kick things, to trample an essay that got an A under his foot, to throw his Quidditch robes across the room. He had let out howls of rage and had broken down crying.

Sadly, the battle between the inborn desire and the instilled beliefs had hurled him into a vicious circle. Tears had soothed him, but he had also been ashamed of them. So, he had fought them, and his anger had built up even more until he hadn't been able to bear it any longer. And then, he had come down not just with tears but with a tantrum. And afterwards, he had berated and despised himself for his weakness and had sworn each time not to do it again. And he had broken every single one of these oaths.

He was weak, and that was a fact. He could as well succumb and have a good cry whenever he longed for one.

Who was there to deny him that?

He felt a bitter laugh bubbling up.

If his father ever caught him crying, there would be no limit to the ridicule he'd have to suffer. If his mother caught him, she'd definitely be disappointed. But she was disappointed in him already; it couldn't get much worse.

And as for all the others – Pansy, Zabini, Nott, Goyle, Snape – why should he still worry about what they thought? For all he cared, the whole lot of them could go kiss a dragon.

...

63. Ghost of Friendship

He put his wet garments on the clothesline.

The chickens were peacefully pecking food. If they took notice of him, they didn't show it. Thus, they emulated nicely the behaviour of his former acquaintances.

Had anybody ever seen _him_?

That wasn't very likely. He had not wanted anyone to look behind the carefully maintained facade. Revealing the vulnerability that lay behind would have been an unnecessary risk. It wasn't prudent to give others an advantage over you.

A few people had caught a glimpse, though. Pansy probably had done so and had promptly backed off. His mother had done so, and she hadn't liked what she had seen, either.

The Ghost Girl had been the only exception. She had provided a shoulder – the incorporeal image of a shoulder at any rate – for him to cry on. He hadn't been used to letting his guard down and hadn't even told her his true name. Thinking about it now hurt. What he'd had with her had been no more than the semblance of friendship, and even that had been based on deception.

If she had known who he really was, if she had known what kind of Mark was burnt into his forearm, she would have screamed the place down with righteous wrath.

He pulled his sleeve back a little to look at the emblem of his shame. Although faded, the Mark was still there – reddish and ugly against the skin. It would never go away entirely. This and the faint, barely visible scars on his chest were the only outward signs of all the damage that had been done inside.

He sat down on the slab of sloppily hewn stone that served as doorstep of the lodging house and got up again thirty seconds later to fetch a couple of handkerchiefs. Tears pricked his eyes again; maybe he should use a towel.

He had learned about the Ghost Girl's identity through one of his aunt's rants about the 'praiseworthy achievements' of the monster she worshipped. Myrtle Monaughan had died in 1943 when the monster had loosed a Basilisk upon the school.

The next time Myrtle had tried to comfort him, he had cried all the harder. Her being ignorant of him serving the very monster that was responsible for her death hadn't been the worst. Worse than that had been that his aunt had laced with guilt what up until then had been a source of comfort – a small one, but a dependable source of comfort nonetheless. The more he had lost outside the Ghost Girl's bathroom, the more he had cherished her company. But his thrice-accursed aunt had to go and mar it, tarnish it, spoil it...

Myrtle was a Mudblood. Of course she was. She had been murdered because of her blood status. And he had known all too well that he mustn't befriend such people, whether they were ghosts or not.

Worse still, however, had been recalling the opinions he had been putting forth in earlier times. _The_ _last_ _time_ _the_ _Chamber_ _of_ _Secrets_ _was_ _opened_, _a_ _Mudblood_ died. _So_ _I_ _bet_ _it's_ _only_ _a_ _matter_ _of_ _time_ _before_ _one_ _of_ _them_ _is_ _killed_ _this_ _time_. _I_ _hope_ _it_ _will_ _be_ _Granger_.

He had said that. Had he meant it?

Back in his second year at Hogwarts, he had been convinced that he meant it. But he hadn't known what he was talking about, not in the least.

People saying things like _I'll_ _kill_ _you_ or _I_ _hope_ _she_ _just_ _drops_ _dead_ were mouthing words. People who proposed murder and actually meant it were not right in their heads. It was against nature to commit murder. Everybody who claimed otherwise was either completely ignorant, or deliberately lying, or mentally ill.

He had been ignorant, and horribly so.

At home, he had often heard how killing was a glorious, honourable deed, especially when done for a 'noble cause'. He had believed it like he had believed all his father's teachings.

The people his father had socialised with had generally talked the same way. Maybe his father had influenced them in their views; maybe they had shared his father's opinions all along and that was why Lucius Malfoy had sought their company. The Crabbes, the Goyles, the Rosiers, the Notts, the Yaxleys, the Averys, the Gamps – they all had at least one Death Eater in the family.

Draco remembered how they had reminisced at festive gatherings about their exploits. He remembered their contempt for people who didn't belong to respectable society, for anyone with no proper wizarding pride, and for blood-traitors and Muggle-loving fools who deserved to meet with a sticky end one day.

Crabbe's mother had sometimes put in a mildly chiding remark that had made the assembly laugh at her and call her a silly cow. His mother had protested the choice of words once in a while. Only Horatio Gamp had ever protested the _choice_ _of_ _topic_.

_Please_, _Lucius_, _don't_ _talk_ _of_ _bloodshed_ _while_ _the_ _children_ _are_ _listening_ _in_.

_You_ _have_ _a_ _son_, _Horatio_. _You_ _want_ _him_ _to_ _become_ _a_ _man!_

_Honestly_, _he's_ _eight!_

_So_ _it_ _is_ _about_ _time_ _he_ _learns_ _what_ _is_ _rightful_ _and_ _proper_.

He, Draco, had been good at learning. He had learned that pure-bloods belonged in charge, that blood traitors needed to be shown the error of their ways, and that Mudbloods didn't belong in the wizarding world at all. Of course, he had noticed how Granger was more apt at magic than he was, and it had enraged him. She was about ten times as clever as pure-blooded Crabbe, and by this she clearly undermined the foundations of wizarding society. Punishment for such behaviour was only just and proper.

He had learned that the death of a Mudblood was no loss but an improvement. If the misfits couldn't be driven off by other means, resorting to drastic measures was permitted.

He had never doubted the soundness of such concepts before he had wised up about the Ghost Girl's fate. And this first flicker of doubt had been brought about solely by chance – he had found the derelict bathroom by chance, and he had heard his aunt's tale by chance, and it had been a quirk of fate that he had found the room first and heard the tale later. And he had hated his aunt for taking even the illusion of a blessing from him.

However, he hadn't been able to see Myrtle Monaughan, the Mudblood. To him, she had remained the Ghost Girl. And of course, that had been another addition to his long list of failings, another proof of his lack of principles.

He was sobbing again.

Who decided what was wrong and what was rightful and proper? He had striven to adhere to the values he had been taught. What else could he have done?

He had been told to listen never and under no circumstances to anybody who had ideas different from his father's. These people were in the wrong because they had ideas different from his father's. He had been told that people who didn't belong to the circle of reputable pure-blood families had no right to voice an opinion because such people didn't belong to the circle of reputable pure-blood families. Why had he never realised this to be circular reasoning devoid of any logic?

Would he have listened to anyone pointing out that lack of logic?

Had anyone ever _tried_ to get him to open his eyes? Had anyone ever made a conscious effort to drag him off the predestined path?

He couldn't recall any such occasion except for the exchange with Dumbledore on the tower.

...

64. To Live or to Die

Even in retrospect, it was difficult to decide whether the old wizard's offer had been sincere. If Dumbledore had indeed known about Draco's mission all along, why hadn't he stopped him earlier? Why had he leaned back and watched as if the yearlong struggle was an entertaining show?

_You_ _have_ _been_ _trying_, _with_ _increasing_ _desperation_, _to_ _kill_ _me_ _all_ _year_. _You_ _almost_ _killed_ _Katie_ _Bell_ _and_ _Ronald_ _Weasley_ _in_ _the_ _process_. _You_ _are_ _very_ _lucky_ _that_ _your_ _unintentional_ _victims_ _survived_...

The foul, old bastard! Maybe Draco's 'increasing desperation' had been nothing but a good laugh to him, but wouldn't it have been a headmaster's duty to care for the life and safety of students like Katie Bell?

Draco blew his nose and wiped his eyes. He was beginning to feel drained, but he had to see this through. If he was honest, as honest as he had sworn to be, he had to admit that he couldn't say how accidentally murdering the girl would have affected him. When he had first heard of her mysterious accident, he had not right away realised his own involvement. Discovering the connection a while later hadn't stopped him from carrying on with what he was doing.

Why not?

Was there anything he could say for himself?

He could perhaps say that he, at that point of time, hadn't yet fully understood the meaning of death. Even less than that of accidental or natural death had he understood the meaning of murder. Realisation had come little by little. It had finally struck him with full force when Crabbe had died, and he himself had only escaped the inferno by the skin of his teeth.

And yes, he had been desperate. The mission had been going anything but well. Getting anywhere near Dumbledore without scores of other people around was far more difficult than he had initially thought. Mending the blasted cabinet required much more time and patience than expected. To make matters worse, Crabbe and Goyle's willingness to assist had been dwindling rapidly.

He suspected knowing about Katie Bell's mishap _had_ nagged at him. It had probably been the sort of worry that lingered just beneath the threshold of consciousness. Incidentally, it had been the time when nights with very little or no sleep at all had started to outnumber those of proper repose. But in spite of all that, he had kept going. He had told himself that he was choosing his parents' lives over Dumbledore's. He had repeated this mantra for long, sleepless nights and countless hours wasted away with dull, uninteresting classes.

He had ordered the poisoned mead. It had never reached Dumbledore. Months had passed before anyone had drunk it, and he remembered his intense fear when he had learned about Weasley being in the hospital wing. But hadn't it been fear he might be discovered rather than fear that Weasley might actually die? Had he just hoped the git would survive because a student's death would make the investigations into the matter so much more thorough? He couldn't tell with certainty.

He had always hated Weasley, and the sentiment had always been reciprocated to the fullest. Where the mutual hatred stemmed from he had no idea. It had simply been there from day one.

The mere sight of Ronald Weasley had usually been enough to trigger irritation. Generally, the anger had been genuine. There had hardly been an act because upholding the Malfoy family honour required opposing and – whenever possible – humiliating the poverty-stricken Weasleys.

Why? What had made the prat so significant?

In hindsight, their fights seemed almost childish, the earlier ones at any rate. Somehow, the enmity had evolved and merged with the upcoming war. The two of them might have ended up actually fighting to the death. He shuddered at the mere thought.

Had he ever hated Ronald Weasley enough to wish him dead? In former times, he would probably have professed such desires without a second's hesitation. But people talking about killing in this way were mouthing words or venting frustration. Well yes, he had arrived at that conclusion already.

He leaned back against the doorframe and closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the scene on the tower.

Whatever else the old wizard had said that night, in one respect he had been right. Killing wasn't nearly as easy as those who had never attempted it believed. Before you could kill others, you had to kill some part of yourself.

And Draco had been trapped in an unsolvable conundrum. Whatever he would have done or have refused to do – the result would have been death.

He would have been responsible for the death of his parents if they had been murdered by way of punishment for his failing to carry out the monster's orders. He was indirectly responsible for Dumbledore's death. He had set the stage for Snape. The effing git could have killed the old headmaster at a million occasions; he had probably just waited for a big audience.

All things considered, he, Draco, hadn't made a choice there on that tower. Before the lure of _We_ _can_ _hide_ _your_ _mother_ _likewise_ had taken effect in his terror-addled brain, Snape had interfered.

Afterwards, Draco had been surprised to learn from his mother that there had indeed been an Unbreakable Vow obliging Snape to keep him safe and alive for the specified time. Before, he had thought Snape was lying, and he had seen two explanations for Snape trying to trick him into revealing details: Either the monster had sent Snape to test the novice's devotion – not to confide in anyone had been an explicit part of the orders – or Snape had been eager to ascend further in the hierarchy.

The latter still made sense today. Agreeing to an Unbreakable Vow had given Snape both an opportunity and the perfect excuse for rendering a service unto the monster that hadn't originally been meant for him but that would elevate him to a prominent position among the Death Eaters. If that had been Snape's plan, it had worked out nicely.

The double-dealing bastard had fooled everyone. Even Dumbledore had believed Snape was acting on _his_ orders, that _he_ had sent him to offer 'help' to the despairing would-be assassin.

Although Draco hadn't believed in it himself, he had thrown the idea of an Unbreakable Vow into the old wizard's face. He wasn't quite sure why. Maybe part of him had wanted it to be true because that would have been a tiny spark of hope. Or maybe he had thought he could hurt Dumbledore with such a statement.

Dumbledore had shrugged it off.

Like everybody else – Snape, his aunt and even his mother – the old wizard had said that Draco wouldn't be able to carry out what he had been ordered to do.

Well, they had been right. All the bragging in the past notwithstanding, he did never, ever want to kill.

Draco pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees. He hoped with all his heart that he would never come into a situation again where he was forced to decide who was allowed to live and who wasn't. He had amassed guilt and sorrow enough to last him a lifetime.

...

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...

Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)


	24. Part 24

65. Out of the Blue

He went to wash the snot-soaked towel.

He made haste to put it on the clothesline before the sun sank too low. It was September; the days were getting shorter.

He also took the trousers and the shirt down, turned them inside out, and put them up again. Experience had taught him to do that; the method sped up the drying process. The moment he clamped the last clothes peg back in place, Lissy alighted on the wooden pole that supported the clothesline.

...

Feeling regret and relief at the same time, Draco removed the parchment from the owl's leg. If she was to fly on to Azkaban, it was probably too late. He doubted the guards would hand belated birthday greetings to prisoners. But then, he was less sure than he had been in the morning whether he actually wished to write his father. Perhaps he should indeed send, without accompanying commentary, a sketch that showed the fire in the Room of Requirement.

However, the small roll didn't contain a fresh piece of parchment bearing the Malfoy crest like last year, and the note his mother had written was unusually long.

_Draco_,  
_ I_ _must_ _insist_ _that_ _you_ _return_ _home_ _at_ _once_ _lest_ _you_ _sully_ _the_ _family_ _name_ _even_ _further_.

He gasped and sat down on the doorstep. How on earth had she found out about him taking up the job in the library?

_While_ _shopping_ _in_ _Diagon_ _Alley_, _Great_-_aunt_ _Lucrecia_ _happened_ _upon_ _Ludmilla_ _Crabbe_. _The_ _ensuing_ _conversation_ _about_ _an_ _apparently_ _lengthy_ _letter_ _you_ _wrote_ _to_ _Crabbe_ _upset_ _her_ _extremely_.  
_Draco_, _what_ _have_ _you_ _possibly_ _been_ _thinking?_ _A_ _formal_ _note_ _of_ _condolence_ _might_ _have_ _been_ _in_ _order_ _seeing_ _as_ _we_ _once_ _socialised_ _with_ _that_ _family_. _But_ _what_ _did_ _you_ _write_ _that_ _made_ _the_ _silly_ _witch_ _rave_ _about_ _you_ _'feeling_ _genuinely_ _sorry_ _about_ _her_ _son's_ _death'_ _or_ _you_ _'having_ _really_ _poured_ _out_ _your_ _heart_ _to_ _her'?_  
_Draco_, _need_ _I_ _to_ _remind_ _you_ _that_ _showing_ _sentiments_ _like_ _regret_ _should_ _be_ _limited_ _to_ _very_ _special_ _occasions?_ _I_ _do_ _not_ _see_ _what_ _would_ _warrant_ _a_ _long_ _letter_ _dripping_ _with_ _emotion_. _Anybody_ _save_ _simple_-_minded_ _Ludmilla_ _Crabbe_ _might_ _find_ _in_ _such_ _a_ _piece_ _of_ _writing_ _enough_ _material_ _for_ _embarrassing_ _our_ _family_, _if_ _not_ _for_ _plain_ _blackmail_.  
_If_ _common_ _sense_ _did_ _not_ _stop_ _you_ _from_ _sending_ _that_ _letter_, _being_ _currently_ _not_ _in_ _possession_ _of_ _an_ _owl_ _should_ _have_ _done_ _so_. _Instead_, _you_ _debased_ _yourself_ _by_ _using_ _Muggle_ _services_.

The words hit him like an actual, physical slap. He forced himself to read on nonetheless.

_Ludmilla_ _Crabbe_ – _following_ _your_ _disgraceful_ _example_ – _tried_ _repeatedly_ _to_ _use_ _a_ _dubious_ _Muggle_ _contraption_ _called_ _'postbox'_ _for_ _sending_ _a_ _reply_, _which_ _was_, _however_, _brought_ _back_ _to_ _her_ _house_ _each_ _time_. _Of_ _course_, _Great_-_aunt_ _Lucrecia_ _advised_ _her_ _to_ _desist_ _from_ _such_ _antics_.  
_Draco_, _you_ _will_ _quit_ _your_ _infantile_ _behaviour_ _and_ _return_ _home_ _immediately_. _You_ _are_ _in_ _dire_ _need_ _of_ _supervision_. _It_ _is_ _high_ _time_ _you_ _saw_ _reason_-

_He_ was to see reason? He most certainly did! What was more, he had seen where the absence of reason led. His mother was the one who didn't see... who refused to see... she didn't understand... she never would... she hadn't seen the fire... she hadn't been encircled by raging flames that lunged at her... she hadn't felt the heat, hadn't breathed in soot...

He crumpled the parchment and tossed it away. Tears were welling up again.

She'd only ever tell him to get a grip... she'd tell him Malfoys didn't show weakness, and Blacks much less... she'd tell him Malfoys didn't pour their heart out... Malfoys didn't feel sorry... they might _express_ regret if that suited their purposes, but they didn't feel it...

He sat there, sobbing and sniffling again. He couldn't help it. The anguish of years wanted out, and his mother's letter had added a cartload of fresh grief.

...

When he put the soggy hankies down at long last, the sun had disappeared round the edge of Mr Penwith's house.

He watched the wind playing with the crumpled-up parchment.

His mother would always give him reliable and to-the-point advice on how to behave in polite society. Polite society meant people who judged the scope of your intelligence on the basis of whether you knew which fork was for which part of a 5-course-meal. Such regulations were purely a matter of convention; there was no necessity or inherent logic to them. Scooping food into your mouth with a spoon would serve the main purpose well enough.

Knowledge about refined cutlery might help you to master life when using a wrong fork was indeed the most horrible disaster you could possibly encounter. But his life lay in shambles. He had to rebuild it, and in order to make its foundation firm and solid he had to sort out problems like _Is_ _there_ _ultimate_ _truth_ _or_ _will_ _truth_ _always_ _be_ _a_ _matter_ _of_ _perspective?_

All of a sudden, he knew with painful clarity how his mother would react to that question. She would say – without pausing for a single moment to consider her reply – _The_ _perspective_ _as_ _taken_ _by_ _the_ _old_ _families_ _is_ _the_ _right_ _one_.

He heaved a sigh.

He wouldn't get answers to any of the questions he had so carefully listed. The pages lay in the locker in Hind Green Close, but that wasn't the point. His mother would not understand why these questions mattered to him, why he craved answers. At best, he would get away with a reprimand for having wasted his time on puerile pursuits.

There was a terrible feel of irreversibility about what he had to do now. His mother _ordered_ him to return to Runcorn's house, but he couldn't and he wouldn't obey.

He mustn't. Neither his mother nor Runcorn would suffer him to ask questions or voice doubts. They would insist that he adhered to the time-hallowed beliefs whether he actually believed in them or not. Whereas his mother could only show her disappointment in him with words, Runcorn had every means to force him into submission. He was sure the hateful old bat knew how to cast Lingering Hexes and to brew mind-paralysing potions. She would break him in no time at all. He wasn't strong; he hadn't it in him to stand up to people like her. And without a wand, he couldn't even defend himself against a simple Jelly-Legs-Jinx.

What hurt, what really hurt, was the fact that he had to let go. He had to let go of a hope he had entertained for the past months – the hope that he could see his mother still as the reliable source of advice and reassurance she had been for him in the past or that he would be able to see her this way in the future.

He felt tired.

When suddenly a policeman appeared in front of him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

...

66. Jory Penhaligon

"Good evening, Mr Malfoy. It's Mr Malfoy, isn't-" the man broke off, gaping at Draco. "Boy, that's not because of old Gorran Penwith, is it?"

Draco didn't avert his face. He had cried, and he knew he looked it. So what?

"My mother wrote a letter," he said and pointed to the crumpled-up parchment that the wind rolled around on the sandy patch between the chicken run and the shrubbery.

"Bad news?"

"Bad yes. News no."

The policeman watched the rolling ball of parchment for a moment; Draco regarded the man. He knew him by sight. He was the older one of the two who had found him sleeping on the beach last summer. How had he got here? Draco hadn't heard a car approaching.

The man turned back to Draco.

"Looks like things are a bit strained between your mother and you."

"Well, she _is_ _my_ _mother_... She's the only one I could rely on during..." he trailed off. The man in front of him mustn't learn that there had been war in the wizarding world. The man mustn't even learn that there was such a thing as a wizarding world. Draco took a deep breath before he continued. He didn't care how much that sounded like a sigh. "She isn't used to questions. She only knows answers. From what I can see, her answers work for her. But they don't work for me. Not anymore. That's the trouble."

"Sounds complicated," the man observed.

"It is. I cannot be who I am without totally disappointing her, and I cannot meet her expectations without leaving behind what is, essentially, me." His own, true self – how much was left in him of the carefree, five-year-old child closing a black suitcase filled with 'little pictures' in his grandfather's study? "I've no idea how to get out of that dilemma," he added.

"Well," the man said, scratching his neck. "I'm certainly not one for advocating teenage rebellion. I'm a father myself, and my girls are both in what people call the 'difficult age'. However... living a lie will never work. Not in the long run, anyway. You'll suffer and in turn, you'll make others suffer. You'll grow bitter and spiteful. I've seen that happen. In the end, people will be all too happy to avoid your company. And your parents will be more disappointed than they can imagine now."

Spiteful and hurting others, not appreciated as company – what the man predicted for the future did wrap up Draco's past nicely.

"I don't want to live a lie," he said.

He was so tired of lying. If he had really poured out his heart to Mrs Crabbe, it shouldn't feel so heavy anymore. The man here looked as if he was willing to listen for the whole evening, but discussing Fiendfyre and Unforgivable Curses or old traditions and blood purity with him would violate the _International_ _Statute_ _of_ _Wizarding_ _Secrecy_.

"Do you happen to know how Mr Penwith is?" Draco asked to prevent himself from spilling secrets. He also got up because it seemed politer to stand when talking to somebody wearing the insignia of his office. He wondered what the writing and the chevrons on the man's epaulettes meant.

"Sure I know. I'm coming straight from the hospital," the man answered. "He's going to be all right. I talked to Doctor Polkinghorne again, and he confirmed what he'd already told me this morning – he got here in time. It was lucky you found Gorran so quickly and ran for help while there was still a good chance. In other words, you saved his life, young man."

"You think I did... this right?" Draco asked, stunned.

"I don't _think_ _so_, I _know_. The baker's was the surest thing. The telephone box is about two hundred yards further off, and trying houses at random would probably have been a waste of time. How were you to know where there was somebody at home and where not? Well, and Gorran himself keeps the telephone in the bedroom. Before you might have found it _there_, you could have run to the baker's twice, fit young man that you are."

Draco didn't know what to reply. He had made none of these deliberations. As usual, he had been too agitated to think properly. In fact, he was glad he had plunged into action and not thought at all. If he had started thinking, the instilled scruples might have got into the way. He knew neither of his parents would approve of his performance. His mother would have hysterics if she was given to displaying emotions, and his father would sneer and conclude that his son had finally lost it. The vast majority of the British wizarding population would simply refuse to believe it: Malfoy ran to save some old Muggle? Ha, ha, pull the other one!

He told himself he shouldn't care what they thought or said. Getting help had been the right thing to do. It had been the _only_ thing to do. How did anyone dare saying otherwise? Why had there always to be conflicting principles?

"Well, I meant to ask you," the policeman interrupted Draco's musings, "what your plans were for staying here this year?"

Draco swallowed. Had he to leave now that the proprietor was away?

"Why do you want to know that?" he asked quietly.

"Because I thought you could let the chickens out in the morning while you're still here. That would save me a detour."

Draco opened his mouth and closed it again without having said a word.

"What's wrong?" the man asked.

"I'm not sure. I might be a bit confused."

"Why's that?"

"Well," Draco said slowly, searching for a reply. It was always the same – as soon as a conversation didn't follow a routine pattern, he felt completely at sea. "I didn't know it was the concern of the police to look after chickens."

For half a second, the man looked taken aback. Then he laughed.

"I'm not on duty," he declared, still chuckling. "Okay, let's start afresh: I'm Jory Penhaligon. I live right down the lane, in the house second next to _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. Gorran Penwith is my godfather."

"Draco Malfoy. Pleased to meet you, Mr Penhaligon."

"Please, call me Jory. It's Sergeant Penhaligon if protocol needs to be observed, but as I've said, I'm not on duty. Do ignore the uniform; I just wanted to get here quickly. So, what about the chickens?"

"I'm afraid they always kind of panic when I go near them."

"You're probably moving too fast. That can be helped: Just pretend you're a chicken yourself. Look."

Jory Penhaligon raised one leg, pushed it forward and set it down again. He repeated the procedure with the other leg, then with the first one again, and so on. He moved his arms as if he were ruffling feathers and made abrupt movements with his head. He looked exceedingly silly. Draco bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"See? It's perfectly easy," the man said, quitting his performance. "And for how long will you still be here?"

"I'm planning to leave on September 12."

"Jolly good. Come on, I'll show you what you have to do."

They went to the hen house where Jory – addressing a man well in his forties with his given name felt odd – explained the mechanism of a miniature door that was specially designed for the birds. Draco learned that chickens usually wanted out quite early in the morning. Six o'clock would be fine. Jory also demonstrated how to measure an appropriate amount of food with an old pot and how to scatter the assorted grain throughout the chicken run. According to Jory, chickens were supposed to search for their food. Finding everything heaped up in one spot was bad for their health.

About to leave, Jory held out his hand.

"Well then, see you tomorrow, Draco."

Draco shook the offered hand, feeling strange. If he weren't Draco _Malfoy_, the disgraced wizard, but Draco, the slightly eccentric sketch-doer that Jory probably saw in him, this would be so perfectly easy, so perfectly normal. But it wasn't.

Why hadn't the Aurors wiped his mind blank and given him simple, ordinary memories that would allow him to fit in _somewhere_?

...

67. Turning Point

Draco stopped himself from calling after the man and asking him whether there was such a thing as absolute truth or whether everyone had their own private truth along with their own private answers.

Instead, he went to his room where he sorted through his Fiendfyre sketches. He selected the one that looked the most terrifying and wrote on the back,

_Mother_,  
_Look_ _at_ _the_ _picture_ _and_ _see_ _where_ _I_ _was_ _and_ _where_ _I_ _don't_ _want_ _to_ _be_ _ever_ _again_. _This_ _is_ _my_ _truth_; _this_ _is_ _the_ _one_ _thing_ _I_ _know_ _for_ _sure_.  
_I_ _am_ _resolved_ _to_ _stay_ _away_ _from_ _all_ _potentially_ _dangerous_ _places_ _as_ _long_ _as_ _I_ _am_ _deprived_ _of_ _the_ _means_ _to_ _defend_ _myself_. _Call_ _me_ _weak_ _and_ _cowardly_ _if_ _you_ _must_. _Censure_ _won't_ _change_ _my_ _mind_.  
_Draco_

He rolled the paper up without reading it over.

Lissy had been patiently sitting on the windowsill. For a brief moment, he gave in to the desire to caress her. She let him do it.

"Don't betray me," he whispered as he fastened the letter to her leg. For yet another time today, he felt close to tears. "Don't lead them here."

She hooted softly, as if to reassure him. Before she disappeared into the darkening sky, she performed several wide loops and zigzags. His expertise at owl communication was very limited, but he hoped the pattern meant something along the line of _Don't_ _worry_.

...

The owl didn't come back with a Howler. Runcorn didn't come with a drawn wand to force him down on his knees.

Nothing bad happened.

On the contrary, the friendliness of the villagers was more pronounced than before. The bakery girl treated him as if he were a former classmate or distant relative of hers rather than a customer. The woman from the tourist office – he met her by chance in the village square just outside the baker's – praised him for his swiftness in getting help.

Although he found the subtle change in the atmosphere oddly appealing, it made him also uneasy because his safety depended mainly on going unnoticed.

However, the attention of the villagers was a small worry compared to the ominous feeling he had about having openly disobeyed his mother. No matter how convinced he was that staying away was a hundred times better for him than slinking back to Runcorn's, his mother wouldn't see things the same way. One day, he would have to face the consequences.

He tried to suppress such thoughts by redoubling the amount of physical exercises. His altered daily routine helped a bit, too. He got up at sunrise and let the chickens out. He fed them before he went to the baker's and checked on them around lunchtime.

Jory stopped by every evening. He kept Draco posted about Mr Penwith's recovery, collected the eggs, and made sure all chickens were in the henhouse before nightfall.

Jory was also there on the morning Draco was about to leave. While Draco was busy stripping his bed of the linen as Jory had told him to do, he could hear the man rummaging around in the house. When Draco – carrying his rucksack and the bed sheets – came downstairs, Jory just emerged from the room that bore the _No_ _Admittance_-sign. He announced that everything was in proper order, took the bed sheets from Draco and tucked them into a large plastic bag. Then he asked for Draco's keys. They went outside, and Jory locked the door.

"Well, I hope I'll see you next summer," he said upon parting. "Take care, Draco."

"Give my regards to Mr Penwith," Draco replied. He had difficulty speaking; his throat felt uncomfortably tight.

"Sure. My pleasure."

With that, Jory closed in on him, and Draco prepared himself for another handshake.

Yet, a handshake never came. Jory pulled him into a hug. It was a brief one, a very brief one, lasting about one second. Strictly seen, it wasn't even a hug: Jory simply put his arm around Draco's shoulders, pulled him somewhat closer, and let go a heartbeat later. That was all that actually happened, but the effect was that of an earthquake. Draco felt shaken to the core. Why the gesture got to him like that, he couldn't explain, and it took him all the way to the ferry to calm down. It seemed that he had become vulnerable in a new and entirely unexpected way.

To his surprise, he relaxed once he was back in the city. Walking down the noisy streets, past the library building, and finally up to Hind Green Close had a curious resemblance to coming home. The feeling puzzled him. But he didn't search for its origin. Being simply content with having it seemed easier.

Mrs Bates greeted him with a warm smile and a torrent of chatter.

The air in his room smelled of apples. A bowl of early ripe fruit sat on a brown-and-white napkin in the middle of the desk. This was the third surprise for Draco at that day. He hadn't expected a welcome gift.

...

In the library, things were unchanged. Nobody asked him questions that went beyond _Did_ _you_ _have_ _a_ _nice_ _summer_, _Mr_ _Malfoy?_

He resumed his work where he had left off a good two months ago. Jeffrey let him have the keys to the filing cabinet without fuss. He never remarked on Draco's practice of reading ten or twelve letters before translating one. In turn, Draco ignored Jeffrey's habit of dividing his time equally between flirting with girls and doing actual work.

Mrs Highbury hardly left her office, a little cubicle that was separated from the staff area by wall-sized windows. Draco heard talk about her being very busy devising protections against an impending plague of insects.

The problem appeared to be a serious one. Somebody had glued warning notes to the lockers in the entrance hall. They read _Beware_ _of_ _the_ _Millennium_ _Bug_ and depicted a creature that looked like a cockroach with fangs. Draco wasn't particularly familiar with non-magical insects. So, he relied on what he picked up from the debates around him. The bugs were feared to damage _computers_, and that was why he didn't get too concerned about the matter. He had nothing to do with the foe-glass-like things. He merely wondered whether the insects would crawl in through the many little holes at the backside of the devices and eat the innards.

...

Then, at the end of September, there came a truly golden morning. The air was crisp and cold. The leaves on the trees had started to turn red and yellow, and the sky showed a shade of deep blue as it could only do in autumn.

He dallied on his way to the library in order to absorb the amazing beauty. In his heart of hearts he knew no sketch of his would ever do justice to the splendour that nature displayed on a day like this one, and that knowledge filled him with sadness. Even things he liked to do, he couldn't do to perfection.

Mrs Highbury intercepted him on the stairs.

He hadn't seen her looking that stern before.

"If you would follow me to my office, Mr Malfoy," was all she said, but instinct told him that he was out of favour.

...

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...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)

(2) The Millennium Bug is also known as the Year 2000 problem. A great deal of computer software used only two digits for indicating the year (e.g. 99 instead of 1999) and had to be upgraded before 1st January 2000.


	25. Part 25

68. Caught

"Sit," Mrs Highbury said, pointing to the chair opposite her desk.

He hesitated because she remained standing.

While she cleared a teetering stack of brochures off the desk, he took a furtive glance around. So far, he had only seen the interior of her office through the glass panels. There wasn't much to impress visitors – a narrow filing cabinet, a potted ivy, two chairs, and the desk laden with papers. The desk looked like any other in the library. On top of it sat one of the foe-glass-like computer devices and the sundry plastic items that usually accompanied them. There was nothing special, nothing refined, nothing costly.

First and foremost, it was a Muggle office, and that fact helped Draco to compose himself. Whatever was going to come, it wouldn't involve Cruciatus curses.

"Be seated, Mr Malfoy. There is something I wish to discuss with you in private," the head librarian said, sitting down behind her desk.

Once he had sat down as well, she continued, "I talked to Professor Ballantyne. Do you happen to know him?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"He doesn't know you, either," she said gravely. "I met him yesterday, in late afternoon. It was a mere coincidence, but I thought it to be a good opportunity to inform him of the first-rate work of one of his students. To my surprise, he knew you neither by name nor by description. That seemed odd indeed because Professor Ballantyne has always prided himself on knowing every single one of his students. I think he was almost a bit miffed. At any rate, he went to check his files and came back, stating that there was definitely no Draco Malfoy studying History this term. He suggested I should try the Arts College as they have there a newly established course called _History_ _of_ _Arts_. Well, the Arts College sounded plausible to me for my staff and I had seen you doing sketches often enough. I was already on my way there, when I thought better of it. I had mentioned you to Professor Ballantyne with the intent of commending on your good work. That is an entirely different matter than going to an administration office, making inquiries."

She paused, scrutinising him.

"Maybe you can help me here, Mr Malfoy. What subject are you studying?"

"I'm sorry," he said. Telling further lies would only serve to worsen matters and quite frankly, he was tired of lying.

"What for?"

He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for making you believe I was studying History."

"So what are you studying instead?"

"Nothing. I'm not a student at this school, err, university."

She was silent. She only looked at him, shaking her head slightly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I thought I could find answers here, at least to some of my questions. There are so many of them. There is so much I don't know, so much I would like to learn."

"Naturally. Wanting to learn is why young people enrol at universities. But they _enrol_. You on the other hand... well, I don't see what your approach to learning should be good for." She paused again, making an apologetic gesture. "Alright, you may say it is none of my business whether you waste your time and your talents. But please, let me point out that you _are_ wasting them. No matter how diligently you study and how much you teach yourself, you won't get a degree this way, be it in History, or Romance Languages, or any other field of science. No matter how much you actually know you will have difficulty finding a well-paid job because potential employers tend to be doubtful if you can't present some piece of paper that looks official. So what hampers you from applying? If you missed the deadline _last_ _year_, you could have applied _this_ January."

She had talked herself into passion. Obviously realising that, she leaned back and took several calming breaths.

"I'm sorry," she said in quieter tones. "It's not my place to lecture you about what you are supposed to do with your life. It's _your_ life. _You_ make the decisions."

Her last statement floored him completely. The telling-off he had expected. But he had also expected some very definite instructions about how he was to conduct himself henceforth.

"Why will you not tell me what I am supposed to do?" he asked. But then, why would she care? "Or is it all the same to you what I'll do now?"

"It's not all the same to me; I'd be lying to say that." She sighed. "Seeing a talented young man waste his chances grieves me. However, it doesn't give me the right to nag you into doing things you don't wish to do. I cannot make choices for you and let you suffer the consequences. I'm aware of the hidden irony: If I see a problem but say nothing about it, you will also be the one who suffers the consequences. I might feel guilty either way. So, let us say I'm offering information rather than advice. It is your decision whether you make use of it or not."

He wasn't sure as to what she actually offered. The repeated remark about having to suffer consequences had drawn his attention, though.

"Will I be punished?" he asked. "For sneaking in here without permission?"

"Well, two years ago things would have been simpler. I would have told you my opinion about the matter, but I would have left it at that. Unfortunately, students have to pay tuition fees since last autumn. Please, answer truthfully, Mr Malfoy: How many lectures did you attend? I mean any lectures in any field of study here at the university or at the Arts College."

He shook his head.

"I only came to the library. I didn't attend lectures."

"Well, then..." She relaxed visibly. "The library is still a public place. The city council has always insisted that at least the basic services should be available to residents. Whereas you can't check out scientific books, you have the right to come in and read everything you find on the shelves. The regulation is still valid although it is up for debate due to plans of installing a newfangled access system that works with electronic ID cards. As far as I understand the purpose, your quest for knowledge would have ended at the entrance door if the new system was already set up."

What in the name of Merlin was an _electronic_ _idee_ _card_, and how would it prevent him from entering a building?

"If the people you are referring to follow through with their plans, I won't be allowed to come here anymore?" he asked.

"Possibly. They aren't yet done arguing. The city council wants exceptions, and the university will probably relent. But citizens will most likely have to pay more than the five pounds a month as they currently do. After all, the students have to pay the new fee-" She stopped short. "That's it, right? The fee? One thousand pounds a year doesn't sound too unreasonable to people who are well-off. To families with low income, one thousand pounds may pose a real problem. Mr Malfoy, you can take out a student loan. Don't let lack of money impede your career."

One thousand pounds a year didn't sound too much indeed. If this was the price for using the library, he could afford it. Maybe he wouldn't even have to touch the money he had put away for his mother.

"My grandfather left me some money," he said. The clerks at post offices and bank houses usually contented themselves with that explanation. He hoped she would accept it as well and refrain from prying further into the matter. "To whom do I pay the required fee?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with all the details. You have to pay up-front, and I think you have to transfer the money into an account. So if you _have_ the funds for studying, what keeps you from enrolling?" She appeared to be genuinely baffled. "You seem gifted. You don't seem a lazybones. Where is the catch?"

...

69. Muggle N.E.W.T.s

The catch was that he was an intruder, a disgraced wizard who didn't belong in her world, a convict on probation who used her snug, little library as a hidey-hole.

And he mustn't tell her any of this.

"I owe you forty-five pounds," he said instead.

She looked at him strangely.

"You said using the library was five pounds a month, and I've done that since January," he elaborated.

"You have to pay for twelve months in advance, actually," she said, still bewildered. "I'll fit up a Resident's Library Card dated back to January for you, and you will promise to keep quiet. I'd rather the matter didn't become the news of the week. Jeff Oldfield is an awful gossip."

"I won't tell him."

"Good. Since that is settled..."

She gave him another searching look. Then she turned a bit to the side and started pressing buttons on the grey plastic panel on her desk. Her fingers moved with amazing swiftness. She didn't even look! Other people, Jeffrey for example, were a good deal slower. They had always to search for the buttons they wanted to press, which wasn't very surprising. Those panels – one of them sat on the desk assigned to Draco, and he'd had plenty of opportunity to study the strange contraption – featured one hundred and two buttons of various sizes, and only few of them were marked with a single letter. There were also ones with punctuation marks, arrows or bizarre letter sequences like _ctrl_ on them. Some buttons bore three different signs at once, and except for those showing digits everything was arranged in a fanciful way.

"The vacancies list has been up since Monday," Mrs Highbury said while her right hand moved frequently to a smaller piece of plastic that Draco had heard being called a _mouse_. Well, the thing was grey in colour and did have a tail, but that was where the similarities ended. "Let's check what's still available..."

He couldn't see the screen from where he sat, but he had noticed on earlier occasions that such screens could display writing or pictures – occasionally even moving ones. _How_ these devices worked was a complete mystery to him.

"You are lucky, Mr Malfoy," Mrs Highbury announced without taking her eyes off the screen. "There is a vacancy in History. Let's see... You need at least two full GCE A-levels passed with an A, preferably in History and English Language. A Subsidiary Course in Latin Language or Classical Civilisation might help. What courses did you do, Mr Malfoy?"

He had never heard the term G.C.E.A. levels before. The context, however, made it all too clear what it meant.

"Mr Malfoy? What courses did you do?" Mrs Highbury repeated, still not looking up.

He cleared his throat.

"None," he said.

She turned to face him full on.

"I beg your pardon?" she said in a low voice. Her eyes bore into his.

"I do not have such qualifications," he said, feeling heat rise to his temples.

She pushed the mouse thing away and leaned back in her chair. He could tell she was angry.

"Mr Malfoy, just for your information," she said with poorly faked poise. He averted his eyes, unable to stand the look on her face. "I do not appreciate having my legs pulled."

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"For wasting my time or for yourself?"

Feeling sorry for himself was a definite understatement. He was so done for...

He had left that damn castle with empty hands – no formal qualifications, no knowledge that was of any use under the circumstances, no friends, no prospects. All he had gained were an ugly branding on his forearm and a suspended sentence.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time, Ma'am," he said, getting up. "I've wasted so much of mine... seven years, eight by now. I don't know. I still can't explain why things went wrong the way they did. And I have absolutely no idea where to go from here..."

Mrs Highbury said something, but her words didn't register with him. He felt like crying out in frustration. Random thoughts surfaced and vanished in rapid succession. He could spend his days in the pedestrian precinct. He would find a means to cope with wintry weather; he could go back to Trethwyn in late spring. He could do sketches; he could walk. He would survive, somehow... He had no plan, and there were no answers. All he knew was that he had to get out of the office before he went to pieces in plain sight of the woman.

"I said: _Sit_ _down_, _Mr_ _Malfoy_."

Her voice was gentle again, softer and calmer than it had been a minute ago.

He slowly turned back. If he broke down in front of her, so be it. He could hardly embarrass himself more than he already had.

"Come on, sit," she said, gesturing to the chair. Her tone had taken on a soothing quality.

He complied, and she produced a package of paper tissues from somewhere and put it down in front of him.

"Just in case. You look a bit agitated," she said. "So, what _did_ happen? As the why seems the most complicated question, we could start with the easier ones – what, when, where, how. That is, if you wish to talk."

Did he wish to talk? Oh yes, he did. His desire to spill all the heavy thoughts that weighed him down surpassed even his ache for answers. But he mustn't. He mustn't tell her about magic and monsters and Death Eaters.

It wasn't fair.

It simply wasn't fair.

"Hiding from your problems will not make them go away," Mrs Highbury observed.

"I know," he said tonelessly.

He didn't exactly hide from his problems. He didn't know how to solve them. What was worse, he couldn't think of anyone from the wizarding world who might be willing to help him. His mother was unable to see what his actual troubles were, and as for everyone else – he was a traitor to his erstwhile allies and a despicable ex-Death Eater to all the rest. They probably wouldn't even listen.

He reached for the little package and crushed it between his fingers.

In all likelihood, talking to Mrs Highbury was his one chance – the only chance he'd ever get – and _he_ _mustn't_ _seize_ _it_. How was that supposed to be fair?

...

70. Not of this World

"My parents educated me at home," he said at length. "When I was eleven, I went to a boarding school in the north. I doubt you've heard the name. It's situated in a remote place, and they are very selective about whom they accept. Both my parents attended Hogwarts in their time, so I went there too. In fact, my parents are of the opinion that only such students should be allowed in whose parents went there as well.

"I was a good student, but my father expected me to be the best in my year. Hard as I tried, I never managed _that_. There was this girl, a real teachers' pet. I can't recall whether I ever beat her in a single test. Maybe my father would have been less annoyed if she had been from an acceptable family..."

How would his father have reacted if Zabini or some pure-blooded Ravenclaw had been top of the year? And was that really the point?

He let out a small sigh. Perhaps he should have asked – at least once – how often a certain Lucius Malfoy had come top of his year. But he hadn't done that while he was eleven or twelve or thirteen years old, and later it had been too late. Such trifles hadn't mattered anymore.

He heaved another sigh. He was wrestling with the same regrets over and over again. It was so utterly futile – what had been done, had been done and couldn't be helped. Nor could be helped what hadn't been done.

"So your father was not pleased," Mrs Highbury broke the silence. "What did he do? Take you from the school?"

Draco shook his head.

"He rather wanted the girl expelled."

"For what reason?" she asked. "For the nerve of outshining his son?"

He shook his head again.

"This is difficult," he said. "Her parents were not our kind. In my father's opinion, their daughter shouldn't have been allowed to attend Hogwarts in the first place. But since she was there because certain people with different notions about the purpose of the school insisted she did have a right to, it was my duty to prove that pure-bloods like me were better than those... those outsiders who don't belong in our world."

"Let's see whether I got this right," she said, frowning. "Your father wanted you to be living proof of his racist prejudices?"

The conciseness of her summary stunned him.

"Well... maybe it could be put like that."

"But you couldn't live up to his demands. So what happened? Did you, in the end, collapse under the overload of work?"

"No, in the end..." In the end, he had been lucky to get away alive and in one piece. But he couldn't tell her that. Fiendfyre, Killing Curses, Werewolves – he mustn't use any such term here. "I never sat my" – he mustn't say _N.E.W.T.s_, either – "exams."

"I see."

"Look, I cannot explain to you what I don't understand myself."

"Maybe not," she conceded. She looked pensive. "To be honest, I'm not sure whether I would really be able to help you to sort out such problems – the differences you seem to have with your father or the troubles you had back in school. I'm no psychologist. In cases where the cuts run really deep, it might be wiser to seek professional aid. But that aside, I'm willing to help should you decide to complete your education."

It seemed to him that she was changing the topic slightly, but he wasn't sure where the conversation was going now. It was as so very often – there were words he'd never heard, metaphors he couldn't place and innuendos he didn't understand.

"Well," she said when he didn't respond, "have you ever considered sitting the exams belatedly?"

Once more, he shook his head. You could repeat a year at Hogwarts, even more than one if necessary and your parents were willing to let you. Flint had done it, and Crabbe had come close several times. But he had never heard of somebody taking belated N.E.W.T.s.

"There are many people who opt for vocational training when they are sixteen and change their mind about education a few years later," she went on. "Courses for studying subjects at A-level usually start in September or October so there is still a chance for you to get in this year. The range of available subjects may be limited, though. And, of course, your choice will depend on your GCSEs. How many GCSEs do you have?"

"But I already told you I had none," Draco said, feeling utterly confused.

"No, you said you had no A-levels – wait, are you saying you don't have GCSEs, either?"

He said nothing. He just sat there and stared at the grey plastic panel on her desk. There was no explanation he could give her, nothing he could say save _I_ _do_ _not_ _have_ _such_ _grades_ _because_ _I'm_ _not_ _your_ _kind_.

"Well, I think..." She paused, and he looked up. He didn't see disappointment this time. She seemed strangely sober. "I think even _that_ can be helped, Mr Malfoy. And I'm beginning to see your predicament – it's probably pretty embarrassing to have to admit that you don't have GCSEs. But, please, don't let shame cloud your decisions. You can still have a decent career; it's not yet too late."

A career – he shook his head for yet another time. This exchange was becoming vain. He wasn't going to have a career. He didn't need one in her world, and he wouldn't have one in the other. He had ten O.W.L.s, yes, but the idea of being allowed to sit his N.E.W.T.s after the end of his probation was downright laughable. But certain N.E.W.T.s were required for any average job in the wizarding world. People who aimed at exploring a field of Higher Magic and becoming a master thereof needed top grades. And this was all beside the point, actually, because no Malfoy had ever pursued a career that involved paid jobs or acknowledged mastership in any science. His mother would never stand for such ideas.

He started at the noise caused by somebody knocking on the glass of the large window to his left. One of the library assistants stood outside the office and gestured urgently to her wristwatch. Mrs Highbury nodded in response.

"My apologies, Mr Malfoy, but I must be off. I'm expected at the bursar's office in less than five minutes," she said, getting up. He followed suit. "I suggest you give the matter some serious thought," she continued while she hastily gathered papers. "Time spent in learning is never wasted. Once you have GCSEs, you can decide whether you want to study for A-levels or get a job. Maybe you didn't have – for whatever reason – the most perfect start, but there are still lots of opportunities. It's up to you how well you use them."

She hurried away, but not without reminding him to come back for his library card the next day.

He stared after her. Although he wasn't completely out of favour – she would write him a permit for using the library – things wouldn't be the same anymore.

He resorted to his usual means for coping with inner turmoil. He went jogging.

...

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...

to be continued

...

Author's note:

Many thanks to my beta readers Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh. :)


	26. Part 26

71. Conclusion

When he had exhausted himself sufficiently, he sat down on the bench under the old oak tree. The early afternoon sun was warm, gossamer threads were floating through the air, and the ever-present noise of cars rushing around the city was a low hum in the distance.

He had hit the ground. This was, in essence, the analysis of his situation.

Nine months ago, he'd had a fever-induced vision about flying a broomstick without brake and handle. Other than with his usual nightmares in which he re-lived horrors he had experienced in real life, there had been an allegorical quality to this dream. Mrs Bates had woken him before it had taken a turn towards prophecy, and pain and infirmity had dissipated the memory quickly. But now, all of a sudden, he recalled every detail. The images were back – vivid, compelling, and orderly as a series of sketches.

He closed his eyes and replayed them.

The broomstick accelerated. The landscape streaked past below him. People ran away, screaming. He narrowly avoided an advertising panel, slipping off the seat in the process. His robes became entangled in the tail twigs; he was dragged along, and the broom still kept accelerating.

He didn't need years of Divination classes to determine what the various aspects of that dream symbolised and what the dream meant as a whole. It lacked the conclusion, but the two most likely ones weren't too hard to guess. One option was being dragged on by the unmanageable broom until he hit an obstacle hard enough to crack his skull. The other one was struggling out of the metaphorical robes.

He closed his eyes again and tried to translate the second option into images that were consistent with the original dream: He struggled out of the robes and plummeted to the ground. He was dazed after the crash, but alive. His right hand was broken, though. There was nobody there to help him because he had left the yelling crowd behind long ago. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he clambered to his feet and staggered around in search of his broom. He had to find and mend it so he could mount it again. But he was on alien territory. His foot caught at obstacles with nearly every step he took. It was merely a matter of time before he stumbled over a strange contraption of unknown purpose and slammed face-first into the pavement. The pavement was made of books. When he looked up, six-feet-high digits were parading up and down. They smirked and stuck their tongues out at him. They were Phone Numbers.

He shook himself bodily to get rid of the ludicrous mental picture. He left the bench and strolled through the park – leisurely this time; he needed to think.

He had been flung out of his world and into another, one where he couldn't fly but had to walk on foot. Wouldn't it be prudent to explore the unfamiliar grounds rather than to toddle on like a blindfolded fool? Wouldn't it actually be _a_ _very_ _good_ _idea_ to learn what every sixteen-year-old Muggle knew? Such knowledge might help him to better blend in with the crowd and to avoid trouble that arose from stupid mistakes like, for instance, not paying the fee for using a library.

Mrs Highbury had found him out. It had probably been a bit naive of him to believe he could dwell in a community for five whole years without anyone ever asking him who he was and where he came from or what he was up to.

He wondered what the head librarian took him for. How did she fit him into her world? He had better behave in a way that made it easy for her to think he did belong in it. The most sensible course of action would therefore be to start studying right away even though he did not need any G.E.S.C.s or G.S.C.E.s or whatever the Muggle equivalent of O.W.L.s was called. Refusing or delaying would only bring him again into situations where he was forced to explain himself.

He had time on his hands – he was stuck in the non-wizarding world for another four years – so why not use that time for learning? He could pick subjects that promised valuable knowledge and drop anything that turned out to be utter rubbish. There was no hurt in sitting a few exams, especially if one was under no obligation of passing them. Was there any argument against studying for Ordinary Muggle Levels other than the fact that his mother would thoroughly disapprove? She wasn't here; she didn't know the first thing about this world. He was the one who had to muddle through. So, he should be allowed to take the measures he saw fit. He didn't have to tell her. He certainly wouldn't.

Deep in thought, he walked to the far end of the park, turned, and walked back to the bench. Then he did another round and another one after that.

He hoped to gain an additional benefit from immersing himself in actual studies. Learning – regular, dedicated learning – would most likely occupy his mind far better than sketching or swimming did. Having an effective distraction from all his old woes would be a good thing indeed.

...

He went to the library the next morning with the firm resolve to ask Mrs Highbury how he should go about studying for G.S.E.C.s. Unfortunately, she was neither in her office, nor could he spot her anywhere else.

He was about to retreat to his favourite reading corner when Jeffrey Oldfield called after him, "Oi, Draco, wait up! The boss told me to give you something."

"Good morning, Jeffrey," Draco said politely.

He stepped closer, feeling a bit of apprehension. Hadn't Mrs Highbury said that Jeffrey wasn't to know about him having no permit?

"Morning, partner," Jeffrey grinned and handed Draco not any sort of paper but a key. It wasn't the one to the filing cabinet. "You are to go there she said. I couldn't help noticing that you two talked for quite some time yesterday. Is something up?"

"Yes, we talked," Draco said, confirming the fact without giving anything away. "But not about this room. Number 307?" he added after glancing at the key fob.

"Yep, one of the little seminar rooms on the third floor. Usually booked by work groups. What's going on? Are you preparing a presentation of the translated letters?"

"No, not that I'm aware of." Draco felt at a complete loss. "Maybe I'll go and check?"

"Yes, do that. And I'd like to know-" Jeffrey trailed off, steering his wheelchair around by about ninety degrees. This way, he had a better view of a girl standing on the other side of the counter and flaunting her artificially blonde mane.

"How can I be of service, honey?" he called over to her.

Draco didn't waste the chance of nipping out of the staff area while Jeffrey's eyes and attention were diverted.

...

The room was dark; it had no windows. Finding the piece of plastic that caused the light to come on was no big deal, though. Draco wasn't quite as clueless about Muggle things as he once had been. Along with the light, the soft humming set in that could be heard almost everywhere in the library. Regarding that noise however, he had to admit that he was completely clueless in respect of both its source and its purpose.

The room wasn't big – about twelve feet in width and around fifteen in length. All chairs had been pushed against the far wall. The tables were arranged in the shape of a U and laden with books.

He picked one up at random. It had a snow-covered Volcano printed on the cover. Inside, there were lots of diagrams and motionless pictures. The chapters had titles like _Why_ _Do_ _Tectonic_ _Plates_ _Move_ or _How_ _Earthquakes_ _Can_ _Be_ _Predicted_. He put it aside, reached for the next one – and gasped.

There were the wires carrying electricity, the little houses with the yellow-and-black warning signs, the light bulbs – there were pictures and sketches of all sorts of Muggle equipment! He spotted the word _fuse_ and sat down to read.

Basically, a fuse was a fine strip of metal housed by material that had to be non-combustible as well as _non_-_conducting_. Its purpose was to protect an _electric_ _circuit_. Draco was about to figure out what to do with the complicated-looking formula that was given when Mrs Highbury walked in.

...

72. Confession

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist the temptation," the head librarian said brightly. "Good morning, Mr Malfoy."

"Good morning, Mrs Highbury," Draco said, rising. "Jeffrey Oldfield told me to come here."

"Quite right." She walked up to him and peered curiously at the book in his hands. "Physics? You are full of surprises, Mr Malfoy. I hadn't seen you as the engineering type. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"I'm not sure I understand your question," he said carefully.

"Well, you said you never sat your exams. That would have to be the ones for your GCSEs, right? This suggests you left school at about the age of sixteen. How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?"

"Nineteen. I turned nineteen on June 5."

"Very well. I know you've been coming regularly to my library since January. You disappeared over the summer and returned as a good student should exactly at the start of term. That aside, there are two and a half years missing. I admit that I have difficulty seeing a plausible explanation as to what you did during this time. I can only speculate. Were you perhaps ill, severely ill?"

He had shaken his head before he realised that having suffered from a long and serious disease might be an acceptable excuse in her eyes. However, saying so would not only mean telling more lies but also inventing them on the spot. He shook his head again.

"Then what _did_ you do?" She fixed him with a piercing look. "Forgive me for being blunt, Mr Malfoy, but I'd like to know whom and what I'm dealing with. Did you, by any chance, serve time in a Young Offender Institution?"

Gobsmacked, he opened his mouth and closed it again. Embarrassment burnt in his cheeks; his heart beat with double speed. How much did she know? How could she _possibly_ _know_ _anything_?

"Was that a yes?" she asked sharply.

There was no use in denying. She'd know anyway. She already did.

"No," he brought out. "I got a suspended sentence. I'm on probation."

"What for?"

"I mustn't tell you," he said hoarsely.

"Oh, don't give me _that_!" Mrs Highbury took half a step backwards. She moved only a few inches away from him, but the distance between them suddenly seemed to stretch for miles and miles. "You must have done something to land yourself on probation. Come on, what was it?"

"I mustn't tell you," he repeated, barely keeping his voice steady. "Can we please drop that topic, Ma'am?"

"No, we most certainly cannot! I'm still willing to help, Mr Malfoy, and you wouldn't even be the first young man who I have helped after he had come into conflict with the law. But I need to know what I'm faced with! So, you will either tell me – here and now – what you did or else you will walk out of this room and out of this library and you won't come back."

He put the book down gingerly. The only clear thought in his head was that he had run into another dead end.

He backed off slowly, chancing a glance at the woman. She stood there – slim and almost a foot shorter than he was, but every inch of her radiated resolve and determination. Pleading wouldn't help. Lying was no option. And spilling the beans wasn't one, either.

He turned and did as he had been ordered – he walked away. It was always the same. No matter what he did or what he tried to do, he'd wind up losing. On the other hand, did he still have anything left to lose? He slowed to a halt.

"I joined," he said, looking at the door without seeing it. The blood pounding in his ears was so loud it muffled his own voice. "Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I joined... a group of people. A group of people who... engaged in certain activities... activities considered... unlawful."

"No offence, Mr Malfoy," – Startled, he spun round. She stood directly before him; the carpet must have swallowed her footfall. – "but I can't picture you in a youth gang."

"No, I was the only youth, at least at that point in time. The others were around my father's age, or older. He was in prison, and it was my duty to take his place and represent the family. I was pr-"

"_Represent_ _the_ _family_?" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "What kind of 'group of people' are you talking about? The _Mafia_?"

He didn't know what to reply. Did the Muggles have their own variety of Death Eaters?

"Your father and his, well, accomplices – what goals did they have?" she pressed on. "What did they want?"

"They wanted to rule the country," he said. It had been as simple as that.

She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, all the while appraising him.

"If you'd said tiptoeing around the tax laws or smuggling antiques, but no..." She shook her head, sighing. "At least, I'm beginning to see why you are to keep quiet. The masterminds behind political conspiracies will hardly be commoners, won't they? And although hushing up such affairs is a scandal in itself, I will not pry any further into the matter. I don't have to make things more complicated for you than they already are."

He had no idea what she thought she knew.

"Thank you," he muttered, unable to think of any other reply.

"That's alright. So tell me, what are the conditions of your probation?"

"I'll have to serve two years and seven months in prison if I break the rules laid down in a _Code_ _of_ _Conduct_." He paused. What phrases were safe to use? "I'm forbidden to engage in political activities, I have to stay away from specified things... I'm also not to talk about certain things or events..."

"Well, yes," she said with the merest hint of disapproval. "But isn't there anything about completing your education? Or didn't at least your probation officer suggest taking steps in that direction?"

Draco had never heard of a probation officer, and he thought it wisest not to mention that.

"No," he said curtly.

"That's outrageous, there is no other word for it. If I were in their place, I'd be ashamed. You were thrown off path at the age of sixteen. You left school before you ever sat an exam. And they don't think that would deserve mending? How are you to sustain yourself and lead a clean life if nobody is going to employ you because you have no qualifications at all? Maybe you can get by for a while doing odd jobs. But temporary, poorly paid jobs won't suffice if you want to have a family and raise children. You can tell your probation officer when you meet him or her next time... Well, no, do say nothing. It wouldn't do you any good."

He gave a vague nod. He had to get her off this. This woman had it in her to go to whatever authorities were concerned and complain about a certain young man being neglected and not given some kind of mentor who was obliged to help sort out the mess into which said young man had got himself.

"You assured me it wasn't yet too late for studying," he said. "I'd like to start right away. What do I begin with?"

To his surprise, she ignored the question.

"Why didn't your family insist on you going back to school after the big, grand scheme you got involved with failed?" she asked instead. "It did fail, didn't it? Otherwise, you wouldn't have been tried."

"My parents have very strong opinions about what is acceptable and what isn't," he said. "They do not know that I'm here, and I would like to keep it that way because they'd _never_ approve. I came here because I need a respite. And _please_, Mrs Highbury, can we drop the topic now?"

"You ran away from home?"

"Not from home exactly. We were liable to paying reparations so the bailiffs confiscated the whole estate along with nearly every other possession. My mother and I moved in with an elderly relative, but I couldn't stand it there..." He trailed off. How much more did he have to tell her before she would leave him be?

"Maybe we should stop looking backwards and focus on the future instead," Mrs Highbury said to his immense relief. "I made some inquiries. There are currently no full-time courses for adults due to cutbacks. I will not comment on that because I'll only get all worked up about it. Instead of proper courses, some newfangled consulting sessions will start in February. You'll have to attend them in order to have your practical skills assessed. Until then, you can make good use of your time and revise. Read as much as you think necessary. Ask. I'll stand ready to help with such subjects I'm well versed in, namely English Language and Literature, but also Accounting, Business, and maybe Classics. I think Jeff can help you with ICT. As for Science – if need be, you can try to find a tutor among the engineering students."

She looked at him for a response.

"Yes," he said slowly. "What are the most important subjects?"

"Maths and English are obligatory. The same goes for Science. ICT and a modern foreign language are highly recommended. I assume you'll choose French. Considering your expertise, you could probably sit a GCSE exam half an hour from now and pass with flying colours. All other subjects are more or less optional. It depends on what you wish to do later. If you are indeed interested in History, you'll need a grade there and most likely one in Latin as well. By and large, you can choose whatever you want. What I put here" – she gestured to the books – "covers all subjects for which there will be consulting sessions next spring. You'll find the essential textbooks as well as a choice selection of additional books for background reading."

She told him that he would have almost all day to sift through the stacks. She would come back at 6 p.m. because the room was booked for the evening and had to be tidied up before the scheduled work group arrived.

She asked his address before she left, telling him it had to appear on his library card. He gave her that of Hind Green Close. He omitted the postcode since he still didn't know it, but that didn't seem to bother her.

...

73. Consolation

He left a mere couple of minutes after her. Agitated as was, he couldn't bring himself to sit down and look through books.

Jogging in Hind Green, he recaptured what he had told the woman. He didn't recall using any word or phrase that belonged to the wizarding world and there alone, so maybe there was no harm done.

All in all, she had only seen the tip of the dragon's tail. She did know, however, that he was a convict, and he knew, deep down, that he didn't really mind her knowing. On the contrary, he wished the _International_ _Statute_ _of_ _Wizarding_ _Secrecy_ didn't exist, and he'd be allowed to tell her more.

Just a day ago, he had believed he could struggle out of the metaphorical robes that tied him to an unmanageable broomstick. Well, he had fooled himself once again. All he could actually do was tear the fabric, thus separating him from the broom. But shedding the robes altogether was impossible. Their torn remnants would cling to him for all his life and slow him down like leg fetters.

He had to trudge on nevertheless. What other option did he have?

...

When he returned to the library, it was well after lunch. There wasn't enough time left to sort through more than one hundred books.

He wrote a list instead. He noted down authors and titles for future reference, and then he went to return the books to the places where they belonged. The codes on their spines made it an easy task. To spare himself the necessity of lengthy searches later on, he added to his list notes about floor, room, and shelf number for each book.

He made good progress and was about to fetch the last remaining books – six large, slightly battered hardbacks – from room number 307 when Mrs Highbury came in with an empty book trolley.

"Goodness, where are the books?" she cried in surprise.

"I've put them back because it was getting late," Draco said.

"You put them back? Where to?" she cried in disbelief. "Who told you to do that? Oh, honestly... Let's hope you'll find them again!"

"I think I will," he said, rather confused by her behaviour. "I took notes."

She snatched the list out of his hand. Scanning it, her expression changed from anger to relief and then to utter incredulity.

"If your list is correct..." She didn't finish the sentence but asked, "Have you worked in a library before?"

"No, I haven't," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you."

"I'm not annoyed. I'm stunned. More often than not, it takes people days and days to completely understand our classification system although they had it thoroughly explained to them. And you? You just go and do it. You are a conundrum, Mr Malfoy."

He put the books he was holding on the trolley and arranged them into an accurate stack. He bowed his head and kept his mouth firmly shut. He couldn't risk blurting out anything that had to be concealed from her.

"I would like to tell you why I am like I am – if I knew it myself and were allowed to talk," he said at long last. "I would like to tell you what I did and what I failed to do."

He paused, absently caressing the spine of "Short Introduction to Inorganic Chemistry" with his forefinger. Jory would have listened. That evening in Trethwyn, Jory would have sat down with him on the doorstep of the lodging house and heard him out. Being the Muggle equivalent of an Auror, the man was probably learned when it came to dealing with crimes and punishments.

Maybe he could say _raging_ _inferno_ instead of Fiendfyre and _weapon_ instead of wand, Draco mused. Maybe he could mention poisoned mead. Maybe he could say _I_ _tried_ _to_ _fling_ _the_ _headmaster_ _of_ _my_ _school_ _over_ _the_ _ramparts_ _of_ _an_ _eighty_-_foot_ _tower_. Maybe he could even bring himself to say _Lord_ _of_ _Evil_ instead of monster and call the Death Eaters the _tyrant's_ _sworn_ _followers_. Maybe he could make a confession of sorts. But how much use, if any, would it be?

Mrs Highbury was an educated woman, yet even she would never comprehend what it meant to be a Slytherin and a pure-blood...

"Perhaps I do understand," she said softly.

He straightened up.

"How so?" he croaked. The untold words burned in his throat.

"I pieced the scraps of information together and filled the gaps with guess work. Feel free to correct me where I err," she said. "At the age of sixteen, you entered a grown men's game. I do not know whether you were hesitant and apprehensive about it, or whether you felt proud because of the supposed great honour. Maybe it doesn't matter. I imagine the game turned out to be too big for you, perhaps ten times too big. You lost your innocence in the process, your social status and, most likely, quite a few illusions."

He swallowed. His eyes stung.

"There is one flaw, though," she continued. "I can only see the spider's web in which you got caught. The spider itself is absent, somehow."

"-xcuse me."

He turned away, fumbling for his handkerchief. He twiddled with the little piece of cloth, allowing himself time to overcome the weakness that was about to spill over.

Mrs Highbury had wrapped up years of turmoil and torment in a few sentences. How could she be so astute? This was so strange – she knew nothing about the world he came from and yet, she was even aware that the most important piece of information was lacking.

And she had provided him with a strikingly fitting metaphor.

"The spider" – he whispered because he didn't trust his voice – "is what I must not reveal to you."

There was silence after he had said that, and it lasted for several long minutes. He had half turned around, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her.

Finally, Mrs Highbury took the books from the trolley and shoved the whole stack into his hands.

"As you obviously know your way around, would you please return them to their shelves for me, Mr Malfoy?" she asked. "You'd save me a bit of time. There is a pile of paperwork waiting for me on my desk."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Thanks. And take care of your library card." She tucked a small, greenish piece of cardboard into the topmost book. Then she gave Draco a thoughtful look. "And focus on the future if you wish to have one."

...

That night, he lay awake. The boisterous twins who occupied the two other rooms were quiet for once. Usually, Mrs Bates had to come upstairs every other hour to tell them off. They were second cousins of hers and currently taking vocational training at a nearby plumber's workshop. According to her, they were sixteen, but they behaved as if they were twelve.

A few days ago, the bathroom had been in a grievous state. Draco had knocked at the door from where the noise – so-called music – came. He had simply told the annoying brats that they were to instantly clean up the mess they'd created and that he wouldn't tell them twice. They had looked mutinous but hadn't dared to refuse. They hadn't even said anything in protest. They knew very well they'd only earn themselves another reprimand if they ran to Auntie Angie with a complaint. They weren't stupid despite their childish behaviour. They probably had scores of G.C.S.E.s.

G.C.S.E.s... He, a pure-blooded wizard of supreme descent, was going to study for Muggle O.W.L.s. He tried to find the idea preposterous but failed. Maybe he was indeed well advised to take the endeavour seriously. Despite everything he had revealed to her during the last two days, Mrs Highbury still proposed to help him. Why? He did wish to secure her goodwill towards him, but he wasn't at all sure as to what her underlying motives were. What was her gain in the matter?

He didn't know, and that was why he had to be doubly careful.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

Author's note:

Many thanks to Kevyn and TheMightyKoosh for beta reading and to Nooka for advice about libraries. :)


	27. Part 27

74. Facts and Fiction

Judging from the number of books Mrs Highbury had selected for him, he had a tremendous amount of work ahead. There were so many different fields of study! To prevent himself from getting too immersed in one topic and neglecting all the rest, Draco wrote down a timetable for himself. He divided the morning between two subjects and spent time on another one after lunch. Then he usually went jogging for about an hour. After dinner he was back in the library to read up on a fourth and fifth subject. Sporadically, he translated one of the French letters, but they had lost most of their appeal since he had now a source of information that was much more effective.

He learned at long last what _electricity_ was – tiny particles called _electrons_ were ripped from their natural places and made to run through the many wires that criss-crossed the country. In their eagerness to get back where they belonged they would rush through any obstacle that people put into their way, be that light bulbs, noisy cleaning machines, or mysterious microwave ovens. The electrons made all these things work. They were tiny but many and, therefore, strong. Their very own brand of energy could be transformed into light, heat, or movement.

He also learned that electricity wasn't gained by capturing and taming wild lightning. The writer of the letter from which Draco had got that notion had merely used a metaphor. Electricity was generated in _power_ _stations_. They were huge buildings where other forces of nature – flowing water for instance – were used to separate the electrons from their native atoms.

Soon Draco came across formulas for calculating how many electrons could be stored in a _capacitor_ or how strong the magnetic aura was that the little imps emitted when made to rush through a coiled-up wire. He did know that electrons weren't imps – they were by far too small to be living creatures – but envisioning them as little, drop-shaped entities with legs and arms helped him understand the various phenomena better. The science of electricity was interesting, but complicated.

Maths, in contrast, was easy. He had already heard a lot about the magical as well as the mundane properties of numbers from Vector. He had learned from Sinistra how to calculate triangles and he knew how to use a pair of compasses. The curious thing about the Euclidean science was that the Muggles credited the same Greek scholars with the original findings.

Sure enough, Maths also comprised things that were new to him. For example, sets of equations with two unknowns was a novelty, but he got the hang of it in between lunch and dinner.

He spent hours and hours on figuring out the strange measurement units that were used in the textbooks. Liquids were measured in _litres_ rather than in pints or gallons. _Metres_ and sundry derivatives thereof were used in place of feet or inches. If his calculations were correct, he was one hundred and seventy five centimetres tall and weighed – or, at any rate, had weighed two years ago – sixty six _kilograms_. He had lost weight during the troubled times, but now his old custom-made shirts fitted him again.

From the book with the snow-covered Volcano on the front page he learned about geological formations and natural resources as well as where the highest mountains, biggest lakes and most important rivers were situated. Why hadn't he known such things before? Both Sprout and Snape had said that the Pale Rime Flower – parts of this plant were used for at least three types of potion – grew at altitudes of 5000 feet or above, but neither had mentioned that the biggest mountain on the British Isles was only 4,309 feet high.

He hesitated to touch the history books. He feared there might be too much blood – figuratively – dripping off the pages. He loathed the thought of having to memorise how many people had been slain in such and such a battle... So, instead of studying British history, he gathered knowledge about present-day Muggle Britain. It was a _constitutional_ _monarchy_ with a _Monarch_ as head of state and a _Prime_ _Minister_ as head of government. Besides the government there was a _Parliament_ that consisted of two chambers. The _House_ _of_ _Lords_ seemed to have slight similarities to the Wizengamot. The _House_ _of_ _Commons_, however, was an astonishing affair. The members of this house were chosen in _General_ _Elections_, and every adult person – or, more correctly, every adult _Muggle_ person – had a vote in this!

He also found out about the Spring Bank Holidays – yes, there were two of them – and read about several other holidays. The reasons why they were celebrated seemed to have little to do with the turn of the seasons.

...

Time flew by. Yule decorations appeared in the pedestrian precinct, but Draco didn't go there to dally and do sketches. He only went there when he needed supplies. The stack of folders on his desk at Hind Green Close grew continuously, and an ink cartridge was sometimes emptied within a day.

He brought a small selection of truffles as a Yule gift for Mrs Bates. He contemplated buying a similar present for Mrs Highbury but dropped the idea because he was afraid she might consider it a pathetic attempt at bribery. They hadn't talked much since that day in room number 307. Occasionally, they exchanged a few polite phrases, but that was all.

The holidays were approaching, and Draco told Mrs Bates that he wished to stay. She didn't like that idea at all. At first, Draco assumed this had to do with her plans of visiting the parents of the twins – taking the boys with her, of course. He would be alone in her house for more than a week. By and by, however, he realised that she was genuinely saddened by the thought of him still not being reconciled with his parents. No matter what he said, she insisted on pitying him.

On the morning of her departure, she gave him a list detailing the opening hours of all pubs in the vicinity. She had taken pains writing this list and had even included eating places like tandoori restaurants where only foreign food was served. She also had a present for him – a homemade plum pudding.

...

Once Mrs Bates and her second cousins had left, Draco made himself comfortable in his room. He put the reading material on the squat bookshelf next to his bed. Among the books Mrs Highbury had selected for him there were only few that he had been allowed to check out with his Resident's Library Card, and they all qualified as _fictional_ _literature_.

Up until recently, he hadn't been aware of the existence of fictional literature as opposed to non-fictional writings. As far as he could tell, fiction didn't exist in the wizarding world. Even _The_ _Tales_ _of_ _Beedle_ _the_ _Bard_, which his grandfather had read to him, were said to be based on real events. The same went for the Morgan le Fey comics. Maybe the only exception was _Martin_ _Miggs_, _the_ _Mad_ _Muggle_. Once in a while, one of the cheap booklets had turned up in the Slytherin common room. The world of Muggles as depicted in them was such a far cry from reality it had to be a fantasy made up by an author who had never seen this world at close range.

One work of fiction he had already read, though, and he was a bit miffed at that realisation. He had taken for a serious report what was, in actual fact, a completely invented story! Much to his chagrin, the blame lay with him. It had said _histoire_ on the cover of the book about the Turkish tobacco merchant, and histoire meant _narrative_ as well as _chronicle_.

He wondered why reading such works was necessary to gain GCSEs, but since he hadn't much else to do for the time of the holidays he would give them a try.

He started with the oldest book. According to the text on the back cover, it had been written exactly four hundred years ago and told the story of a Danish prince and his fascination with _philosophy_. However, Draco stopped reading halfway through the foreword. He had no desire whatsoever to read about people – and closely related family members no less! – killing each other off.

The next book dated from 1813 and was a tale of five sisters who tried to catch good husbands. After all sorts of problems and misconstructions, the two eldest girls did indeed marry refined wealthy gentlemen whereas one of the younger girls, the one who had been somewhat reckless in her ways, ended up with a man of questionable respectability.

Draco admitted that the novel had an entertaining quality, but he wasn't sure why it was considered educational. Judging from the text, people had known neither cars nor computers two hundred years ago. They had lit their rooms with candles rather than with electric light bulbs. But how reliable were such facts if the story itself was an invented one? His doubts notwithstanding, he studiously took notes.

The third book came from a faraway country. A student called Holden Caulfield related how he had failed in school and what had happened on his journey home. Somehow, the mess increased from chapter to chapter. Draco didn't truly understand all of Caulfield's actions, but he understood how the boy felt. The end had a familiar ring to it, too. Caulfield went to a quiet place where he could take a break from all his troubles.

...

75. The Phone Call

In between reading sessions, Draco went out for a few refreshing jogging rounds and, of course, for meals. Mrs Bates's list of pubs was reliable, and her plum pudding was incredibly delicious; Tribbs couldn't have come up with anything better.

All in all, he was quite sure he had a better Yule time than last year or the two years before that. Immersing himself in his reading material, he tried not to think too much about past times or about his mother's birthday.

Unfortunately, not all books were suited to distract him from unwelcome thoughts. With two of them he didn't even start because of the details given on the inside flaps of their dust jackets. The first one, a heavy tome of more than one thousand pages, was about a Dark Lord striving for world domination. Draco didn't care whether the world in question was an imaginary one; he simply wasn't going to read such stuff! The other book dealt with a war that had claimed the lives of more than fifty million people. The mere figure made him nauseous. Fifty million people – that was the _entire_ Muggle population of England! He stuffed the offending book into his bag so that he wouldn't have to look at it again. Then he ran to the park where he kept jogging until the mental image of rows upon rows of dead people lying on the floor of the dining hall faded away.

...

In the hope of cheering himself up, Draco turned to a book that was hailed in the text on its back as being extraordinarily humorous. But he didn't get the point of a giant turtle drifting through space with elephants on its back or of a bunch of completely daft wizards loafing around at an invisible university. What was funny about a librarian who couldn't speak a word except _ook_ and _eek_? He wondered whether Mrs Highbury had ever read the book herself. With a sigh, he put it aside. He was becoming more and more convinced that fictional literature was not his cup of tea.

The last book made up for the rest, though. It was about two young women running a catering service – or trying to run one, at any rate. They were constantly wrestling with problems. There were burnt roasts and soups gone awry. There were clients with unpredictable whims and ones who didn't pay the bills. There was a competitor who sought to sabotage their work, and their only transportation vehicle broke down at least once a week.

Draco couldn't help but admire how the women kept their spirits up despite the never-ending series of disasters. He wished he possessed a tenth of their optimism.

He also learned – finally – from this book what phone numbers were and what you did with them. The characters _phoned_ _each_ _other_ all the time, which was to say they were making Floo calls using either _telephones_ or portable devices called _mobiles._

Once again, Draco was amazed at the scope of his ignorance. Four months ago, he had not understood what the bakery girl was doing when she had used a mobile to get help for Mr Penwith.

He had also seen the many red huts with _TELEPHONE_ written above the door. He had considered them a typical feature of Muggle settlements, yet they hadn't stirred his curiosity.

It had been quite similar with several other things. 11,000 Volts substations, for instance, had always been there in plain sight, but it had taken him ages to start wondering about them. He had found out about the use and workings of traffic lights or postboxes by coincidence rather than by purposeful investigation. Despite its unsightliness, he had regarded the heating device in his room in Trethwyn as a piece of decoration. When autumn had come and the room had gone cold and damp he had not known that spinning the little widget was all he needed to do to solve the problem. And chances were that he would have to add more items to this list in the future.

...

The next time Draco jogged in Hind Green he stopped at the _telephone_ _box_ on the north side of the park. A short inspection of the facility would certainly do no harm. He stepped closer to peer through the windows. There was somebody inside – a woman was talking to a thing that resembled an aubergine sliced in half. She had her back turned to Draco and didn't notice him. He watched her for a couple of minutes before he resumed his jogging; the sun was already about to set.

One day later, Draco found the telephone box unoccupied and slipped in. He felt somewhat claustrophobic; the room wasn't even the size of an average broom cupboard. It was fairly warm inside thanks to the afternoon sun shining in through the windows. It was also a bit smelly. A faint hint of urine hung in the air.

Ignoring the odour, Draco took a look at the apparatus. It was made – quite rarely for Muggle equipment – of metal. Connected to it by some sort of metal rope was the black, aubergine-like thing. Draco reached for that piece of customary plastic – and flung it back, startled at the whistle that it emitted in apparent protest.

He fled the telephone box.

Had he set off an alarm?

Facilities in the wizarding world were often secured against unauthorised use with the foulest of curses. His parents had never hesitated to safeguard their property with nasty spells that could be deadly to somebody who triggered them unawares, and even the Ministry had been known to resort to means that just fell short of dark magic.

After he had calmed down in some measure he reminded himself that Muggles simply put up signs saying _Danger!_ _High_ _voltage_ or _No Admittance_ if they wished to keep trespassers off the grounds. He hadn't seen any such sign on the outside of the telephone box. There had been several printed placards inside, but he hadn't given them more than a glance because they had looked to him like advertisements. Should he go back and check whether there were explicit warnings?

It took him an entire lap of jogging around the park to answer that question and then another lap to work up the nerve for the task.

When he neared the telephone box again, a man walked up to it and went in right before Draco arrived. Draco moved closer until he could spy through the windows. The man pushed the quadratic keys on the front side of the apparatus. Then he held the piece of black plastic close to his face and talked to it. He was done within a minute, put the plastic thing back, and left.

Draco waited until the man was out of sight. Then he opened the door and scanned the placards fastened to the opposite wall. The majority of them were indeed advertisements, but one gave detailed instructions on how to use the telephone! Thrilled, he went in and closed the door behind him.

The instructions were full of unfamiliar terms. He read them twice, trying to commit them to memory. Maybe taking notes would be the better course of action. He was about to go and fetch pen and paper when he thought better of it. Knowing in theory how a telephone call worked was one thing and possessing the practical skill to make one quite another. You didn't learn how to brew a potion by copying down the recipe!

He read the instructions for a third time.

Then he reached for the black plastic thing, which was called a _handset_. The whistle didn't scare him like before because he now knew that hearing a _ringing_ _tone_ was – for whatever reason – part of the procedure.

With his free hand, he searched his pockets for small change and found some ten pence coins. One by one, he put them into the slot that was designed for this purpose. He left off as soon as he noticed that the ringing tone had stopped.

The next step was _dialling_ _the_ _telephone_ _number_. Although not entirely sure, Draco was confident that this meant pressing the little keys with digits on it. After all, the man he had watched had done that.

He dialled the only telephone number he knew. He had thrown the sketchpad away on which Trish had scribbled it, but he was sure he could trust his memory because he had spent quite some time analysing the strange sequence in search for a hidden meaning.

The very moment he finished pressing the keys, the ringing tone came back. It was intermittent this time rather than continuous but still nothing more than a stupid ringing noise. Draco listened to it with a sudden, overwhelming feeling of disappointment. Why did his endeavours always end in failure?

A female voice startled him out of his gloom. It didn't sound like Trish's, though.

"Who am I talking to?" the thin, somewhat impatient voice asked out of the handset.

"Er..." Draco cleared his throat. With Floo calls you always saw whom you were talking to! The realisation that he had no idea what to say to the girl he hardly knew did by no means help to dispel his confusion. And the woman wasn't Trish, anyway. That was what he blurted out, "You aren't Trish."

"No, I'm not." Draco thought he heard a chuckle. "I'm Trish's mum. And who are you?"

"I'm Draco... Er... Draco M-"

There was noise again, loud and nerve-racking.

"Sorry," the woman said. "I didn't quite catch that."

"I'm sorry, there is this annoying noise again. Why does this apparatus always emit these high-pitched whistles?"

"What are you talking ab- ... wait, are you calling from a public phone?" When he didn't react immediately to her question, the woman added in an urgent manner, "You need to put more money in; you're running out of time!"

Draco glared at the instructions. _Insert_ _more_ _money_ _if_ _you_ _hear_ _a_ _bleeping_ _tone_... He hastened to put the rest of his coins in. There were several weird clinks and clatters, and the _bleeping_ stopped.

He breathed out heavily. He should bring coins of higher value the next time. According to the placard, the machine would accept everything from ten pence upward.

"Are you still there?" Trish's mother asked.

He nodded, remembering simultaneously that she couldn't see him.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."

"Well, before you waste more of your money: Trish isn't home. I'm afraid she was a little vague about when she'll be back. Probably not before midnight. Shall I take a message?"

"I'm not sure. She wrote her telephone number on my sketchpad and told me to 'ring her up'. But she didn't say why."

"Sketchpad? Sorry, I'm afraid Trish never told me anything about sketchpads. Does she have _your_ number? I'll tell her to call you back."

"No, please, don't trouble her. I merely wanted to see whether it works," he said quickly and loudly because the bleeping had started anew. "Please, excuse the disturbance, Ma'am. Have a nice day."

He put the handset back before she could respond and wiped his sweaty fingers on his trousers. The tension ebbed away slowly.

He had done it he thought as he left the telephone box. Maybe the exchange with Trish's mother had been altogether pointless, but he _had_ _done_ _it_. He had used a piece of Muggle equipment, _and_ _it_ _had_ _worked_.

...

76. Mendel's Laws

The New Year started with snow and cold weather. In the library, the posters that had cautioned people about the Millennium Bug were gone.

Draco was back in his favourite reading corner. Steadily, he worked his way through the textbooks on the list.

He read about regimen and health care. An apple a day was good, but five helpings of fruit or vegetable a day were better. Muggle healers were called _medical_ _doctors_, and the men in green and yellow overalls who had taken Mr Penwith away were _paramedics_.

He read about optics. The Muggles didn't know omniglasses but employed lots of other optical devices. Their telescopes were pretty similar to the ones he had used at Hogwarts.

He discovered parallels between Astronomy here and Astronomy there – the constellations, planetary orbits or the phases of the moon were the same in both worlds. But he saw differences as well. The Muggles entertained wild theories about how the universe had come into existence whereas Sinistra had said it was infinite in both space and time and had been there forever. While wizarding people were content watching the stars, Muggles endeavoured to reach them. They regularly sent their machinery into outer space, and they claimed to have already visited the moon. Draco wasn't sure whether he should believe the latter, or whether it was an elaborate hoax thought up by a bunch of clever pranksters to impress the gullible.

...

At the end of January, Mrs Highbury gave him a large book listing all questions that had been asked in GCSE exams of the previous years. It also contained guidelines for how to answer those questions and, on separate pages, the correct answers. She said it might help him detect the still existing gaps in his knowledge.

He didn't need the book to find out where his deficiencies lay. He knew already.

French, for instance, wasn't quite as easy for him as Mrs Highbury had believed or he had hoped. Grammar or spelling weren't a problem, but vocabulary sometimes was. Modern-day Muggle French could be full of mysteries. For example, he didn't understand a term like _l'appareil_ _d'échographie_ any better than its English counterpart _ultrasonoscope,_ and why _le_ _tourne_-_discque_ had to be translated as _record_ _player_ was simply beyond him.

But French was fine by comparison. By far the worst subject was Chemistry. The author of the textbook stated in the preface that Chemistry had nothing to do with medieval Alchemy. That was all too true. Chemistry had definitely nothing to do with Alchemy, neither medieval nor contemporary. Perhaps it was useful to know that three hundred and sixty grams of ordinary table salt would dissolve in one kilogram of water, and maybe he could get used to saying _en-a-cee-ell _for salt and _aitch-two-o_ for water. But what in the name of Merlin was a _chloralkali _process that yielded _hydrogen_ _gas_ and _sodium_ _hydroxide_?

ICT – Information and Communication Technology – came right next to Chemistry. Even with the correct answers from the new book Draco was still lost in a dense jungle inhabited by _modems_, _spreadsheets_, and _CPUs_. Reading about such alien, mystifying things gave him an idea of how Crabbe must have felt most of the time.

...

Having first been fascinated with physics and later stuck with chemistry, he had failed to notice another major science. _Biology_ dealt with all types of living creatures save magical ones.

He dived into _Botany_. It had certain parallels to Herbology, but he found quite a number of new and intriguing details about the life of plants. The biggest surprise was the experiments one Gregor Johann Mendel had conducted with garden peas more than a hundred years ago. They reminded Draco of what he had wanted to do with irises. For once, he drew his timetable aside to read up on Mr Mendel's astonishing findings. According to the textbook, Mendel's laws didn't just apply to simple vegetables but to all living beings, humans included. The revelation left Draco totally nonplussed.

If magic was inherited as the old pure-blood families firmly believed, were did Mudbloods come from? How could a dominant trait be passed on for generations without manifesting itself? Or should he conclude that magic was a recessive trait? That couldn't be true because the offspring of mixed marriages usually were witches and wizards. And halfbloods marrying other halfbloods didn't produce, on average, twenty-five percent squibs.

Could Mendel's laws be faulty while there were more than twenty-nine thousand pea plants to prove the man's results correct? And why was he, Draco Malfoy, descendant of two of the noblest families, such a feeble excuse for a wizard? Why did those possess magic in abundance who didn't have a right to?

Naturally, humans were more complicated than peas. The textbook said that no less than twenty-three _chromosomes_ were passed down by each parent. How many of them were responsible for creating the ability to do magic? Two chromosomes were probably not enough because two independently transmitted traits might result in every sixteenth child born to Muggle parents turning out a witch or wizard. That simply couldn't be true. There'd be thousands of them in this city alone!

He tried to create a diagram for three independent traits but got nowhere with it. Even after four days of determined work he was no closer to a solution than he had been at the start. On the evening of the fourth day, Mrs Highbury appeared rather unexpectedly in his reading corner. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down on the other side of the desk.

"You look worried, Mr Malfoy," she said. "What is bothering you?"

Taken aback by her bluntness, he asked in turn, "What makes you think I'm worried?"

"I have been keeping an eye on you ever since you agreed to study for GCSEs. Maybe I don't have an actual right to do that, but I've done it anyway. There were days when you looked worried or tired, but you were usually back to normal on the next one. Now, however, you have been brooding about something for three days in a row. So what seems to be the trouble?"

"I've been studying Mendel's laws." He shoved the latest of his failed diagrams across the desk. "There. It's supposed to be a chart for three independently transmitted traits. But it doesn't work."

"Good grief!" she exclaimed, glancing at the complex schema. "They aren't going to ask something that complicated in a GCSE exam."

"That's not the point," he said impatiently. The fruitlessness of his attempts had begun to grate on him. "I'd like to know how qualities are created in a child."

"Perhaps you should consider taking Biology at A-level, then," she said. "Your teachers there may be able to help you with the finer points of Mendel's laws."

"You wouldn't?" he asked, gesturing to the chart.

"Be able to help you with genetics?" Smiling faintly, she shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Science has never been my strong suit, and I've probably forgotten half of it over the years. Maybe I could still put the diagram for the white and pink peas together if I tried hard enough, but I wouldn't know anything that goes beyond."

Her calm reply almost made him gape. There seemed to be neither embarrassment nor anger beneath the surface. He tried to recall an occasion when his parents, or teachers, or any other person who commanded respect had openly admitted to him that there was something they didn't know and had done so without trying to belittle the subject matter or to place the blame for their lack of knowledge elsewhere. None came to his mind.

"It seems this wasn't the answer you wanted to hear," she said quietly.

"I'm not sure what I expected," he said. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to feel sorry. Just be mindful of your time budget, Mr Malfoy. The point of General Certificates of Secondary Education is to gain a solid foundation in a wide range of subjects. Don't yet get too obsessed with details. The time for specialising and more in-depth studying will come later." She paused. "Here is a suggestion. You'll make sure you get good grades so you will have a decent number of options for your A-levels, and I'll dig up a worthwhile book about genetics for you."

He didn't need any grades he thought. He just wanted the knowledge. Then again, you wouldn't get onto the N.E.W.T. course if you hadn't scored a good enough O.W.L. grade in the same subject.

"All right," he said, reminding himself that he shouldn't risk his good standing with her. "I'll pass my exams and will be rewarded with the book."

"Deal!" she said. Rising, she extended her hand to him.

He rose as well and took the offered hand. The situation felt infinitely strange. Her smile suddenly seemed to have an impish quality to it. But she only bid him good night and left.

...

In respect to his time budget, Mrs Highbury had been right. He had only managed to read about one half of the books when the training sessions started a week after their conversation.

Even so, he went to the appointed place, a large brick building situated two streets away from the library. But the first obstacle with which he met there had nothing to do with unread books. Some city official wanted to see his _Birth_ _Certificate_. Quite coldly, she told him that he wouldn't be allowed to attend training sessions or to sit exams if he failed to present one.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.

(2) A word about telefone tariffs  
In 2012, sixty pence buy thirty minutes talking time. But the tariffs of 1999 were more complex. Payment depended not only on the duration of the call but also on call distance and time of the day. Having to pay sixty pence for two minutes wasn't impossible.


	28. Part 28

77. Clandestine Magic

Draco sat on his favourite bench in Hind Green, pondering the problem. He knew for a fact that his birth had been carefully recorded. He also had no doubt that his mother had kept the Family Register of all things when they had left the manor. But the ancient book bound in dyed dragon hide was nothing anyone outside the wizarding world should ever lay eyes on. He, on the other hand, had no idea what Birth Certificates in the non-wizarding world would look like, let alone how to obtain one.

There was only one person he could ask for advice.

...

Like so very often, Mrs Highbury was busy. She hardly looked up from the computer monitor when Draco entered her office.

He apologised and said he'd come back later.

"You wouldn't be here if it wasn't important," she said, her fingers still dancing across the keyboard. "Out with it."

"I need a Birth Certificate," he said, getting straight to the point instead of wasting more of her time with polite phrases.

"Of course, you do..." She paused and looked at him. "Don't your parents have a copy?"

He shook his head mutely. It felt less wrong than lying with words.

"What about your probation officer? Can't that lazybones make himself useful once in a while?"

Draco flinched inwardly. Probation officers were a most unsafe topic.

"Well, I suppose not," she sighed. Reaching for a pen, she said, "So let's get this sorted out quickly; you can't afford to miss out on too many training sessions. What is your full name?"

"Draco Ophiuchus Malfoy. Do you want me to spell Ophiuchus?"

"No, unless it isn't spelled the same way as the constellation."

"It is the constellation. Draco is one, too."

"Right, now that you mention it..." she murmured, scribbling away. "Date of birth?"

"Fifth of June, 1980."

"Place?"

"Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire."

She hesitated for the briefest moment before she wrote down the words.

"Your father's full name?"

"Lucius Coriolanus Malfoy."

Draco didn't see hesitation this time.

"Your mother's?"

"Narcissa Lyra Berenice Malfoy née Black."

Leaning back in her swivel chair, Mrs Highbury gave him one of her probing looks.

"Well, thinking about it now, there have been hints all along – you knowing your lineage a thousand years back or home-education," she said. "There is something about you, Mr Malfoy, that points to a certain background. I can't really put it into words. It's something subtle, something that shines through at times in your stance or in your manners despite your... no, maybe I shouldn't say _despite_ because even your eccentricities add to the picture."

"Eccentricities?" he echoed, horrified.

She smiled.

"Wearing crazy clothes is mostly considered ordinary behaviour in university students these days, which renders the clothes in question far less uncommon than intended and – sadly – undermines thereby the whole effort. In effect, wearing torn jeans and a Greenpeace t-shirt won't help you stick out of the crowd, but wearing a jacket that looks as if it came straight from a Jane-Austen-movie definitely will."

With a pang of worry, he looked down at his jacket.

"No, the old one," Mrs Highbury said. "This one here is perfectly fine."

He closed his eyes for a moment to let the realisation sink in – for months he had walked around in an outfit _that_ _triggered_ _attention_!

"I wasn't aware of that," he said, opening his eyes. He felt a bit faint. "What about the parka?"

"The parka? What should be wrong with a parka?"

"I don't know. It's just that I'm not particularly knowledgeable in this area."

Except that he was. His mother had made sure he knew which attire was appropriate for which occasion and what would be out of place. Only her guidelines were completely useless where he currently lived.

"Well, men seldom are," Mrs Highbury said in a tone that dismissed the matter. Pointing to the notes she had made, she continued, "I'll do what I can. In the meanwhile, you should go back to revising."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"That's all right." Her right hand already darted back to the computer mouse. "If you'd please excuse me."

...

They met again the next day, early in the afternoon. Mrs Highbury, looking quite obviously pleased with herself, gave him a large manila envelope.

Bemused, Draco scrutinized the rather unimpressive envelope. The sender was some office in Wiltshire, the addressee the library.

"Er, thanks," he said. "What exactly is this?"

"Your Birth certificate! And it's a curious story how it got here so quickly. I phoned the General Register Office first because that seemed the most sensible thing to do. They said no, they hadn't an entry for a Draco Malfoy but gave me the numbers of several local offices. I phoned them one by one – I lost count of how many calls I made and how often I got redirected. Nobody seemed to have ever heard the name Malfoy. I was beginning to think you didn't exist at all, that you were a figment of my imagination, or else that my facts weren't correct even though people who lie about their name will probably choose something ordinary like Paul Wright or David Williams instead of Draco Ophiuchus Malfoy."

Draco swallowed. The thought of going by an assumed name had never, not even for a single instant, occurred to him. Just what kind of Slytherin was he?

"I'm sorry for doubting you," Mrs Highbury went on, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "Then another thought struck me – what if I was dealing with some sort of witness-protection programme? All at once, I was afraid my asking around might cause actual damage. I was about to quit when one of the civil servants I had spoken to earlier called me back. It's indeed a good thing that modern telephones can store the caller's number, but that's just by the by. Back to the story – the solution was quite banal. The man apologised and said your whole family had been overlooked for some reason when the accumulated data were transferred to a computer-based access system a few months ago. He had found the original paperwork and asked me how many copies I needed and where he should send them. I was rather stunned and couldn't think of anything else but to give him the address of the library. That was yesterday in the afternoon, quite late actually, and this letter was in today's mail" – she pointed to the envelope in his hand – "The swiftness borders on miracle. If I didn't know there is no such thing, I'd say that was a piece of magic."

Magic! Draco very nearly dropped the envelope. His heart hammered at top speed, his thoughts raced.

How likely was it that the letter had got here by magic? Mrs Highbury had phoned Muggle offices. But who had phoned her? You didn't see the person at the far end of the connection! What if a Ministry clerk had contacted her, a special employee who was well versed in making phone calls?

"Come on, don't look so scared," Mrs Highbury said, still smiling. She seemed far from suspecting that there might be anything wrong with his Birth Certificate or the way she had got it. "The problem is solved – more quickly than one could have hoped; the poor bloke must have been really ashamed of his colleagues' blunder. And the definite boon is that you can attend lessons right away."

"Yes... thank you," he managed to say. He felt dizzy. Little black spots were dancing before his eyes. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome," Mrs Highbury replied genially and went back to her office.

He had to sit down; his legs refused to support him.

What had possessed him to ask for help? Why had he not thought of the risks? What if Mrs Highbury's actions had alerted the Aurors or other Ministry clerks? What if they had wised up about his current whereabouts?

It had been a long time since he had last felt like he did in this moment. He was shaking physically, and it took him almost an hour to regain enough composure to get up from his seat and leave for Hind Green.

...

78. General Certificates of Secondary Education

He ran very slowly, the manila envelope clutched tightly in his hand. After about another hour he was able again to think coherently. If somebody intended to come after him, they would be here already.

But he was still shocked by how close he had come to violating the _Code_ _of_ _Conduct_. He doubted that he was allowed to use a service that was – no matter how remotely – linked to magic. And a link had to exist even if Mrs Highbury was correct and had indeed talked to the same civil servant twice. Said servant and his colleagues kept records on children born to magical parents. They needed a source of information in order to do this. (*)

And he needed to be more cautious in the future.

He ran on for a while longer before he sat down on the bench under the large oak tree, opened the envelope, and took out the CERTIFIED COPY OF AN ENTRY OF BIRTH. It stated his name and the names of his parents as well as date and place of his birth. It also confirmed that he was male. His father's occupation was given as _landowner_.

About to put back the document that proved his existence, he noticed that there was something else in the envelope – a small, rectangular piece of plastic, bearing the words _National_ _Insurance_ _Numbercard_, a cryptic combination of letters and numerals and his name. Attached to it by a drop of glue was a short, formal letter in which unknown people apologised for their negligence and expressed their hope that he hadn't been inconvenienced by it.

Sighing, he dropped card and letter back into the envelope. It had taken him more than a year to find out what phone numbers were. How long would it take him this time to solve the puzzle?

...

The next morning he went to show his Birth Certificate to the pompous city clerk who had thrown him out the other day. She allowed him to pay the required fee, and then she gave him a timetable that listed all available training sessions.

From this day on, he attended a great number of those sessions. They were not lessons in the strict sense. The instructors would answer questions if they thought them relevant for the exams, but most of the time the examinees-to-be were asked to demonstrate their skills.

They had to write essays, for example. The topics were often strange ones like "How does the author create sympathy for the heroine?" Draco muddled through such assignments with utmost difficulty. Reflecting on his own views, motives, deeds, and desires was already hard enough, and here he was forced to contemplate the mindset of other people – people he didn't even know. That was why his essays were mostly rants about the impracticality of the task. To his surprise, he got points for them – never the full score, but enough for a pass grade.

He was also made to read newspapers. There were about a dozen different ones issued on a daily basis. Some of them were brimming with advertisements, but had little else to say. Some spouted the same sort of nonsense like the _Daily_ _Prophet_. He knew better than to buy any of their codswallop. After all, he could tell how they obtained "information". He himself had fed half-truths and downright slander to a reporter who was notorious for her sensationalist articles. The memory of how proud he had been of his childish coup embarrassed him. Once more, he wished he could forget.

He kept to the more serious newspapers but didn't like them, either, because they destroyed another of his illusions. He had believed the world of Muggles to be peaceful. But there were, in truth, all sorts of conflicting interests between hundreds of countries that featured a confusing variety of leaders, prime ministers, dictators, and presidents. There were severe environmental pollution, diseased cattle, border disputes, and _actual_ _wars_. The fact that those wars were taking place in far away parts of the planet quenched his alarm a little, but not quite. He'd rather he did not learn such news so he read only the required passages and not a single line more.

Things he deliberately avoided aside, he worked hard. He prepared every training session by going through his notes, re-reading relevant passages in the textbooks and answering the related questions from past exams. His success, however, varied widely.

He was good in Maths and French. The instructors soon suggested he should sit the exams for the higher tier.

He did fairly well in scientific experiments, especially in Physics. Calculating the density of a stone by measuring its weight and the amount of water it displaced was a clever enough method for people who were not able or not allowed to use a charm. He even managed to secure a few points in Chemistry by meticulously following the printed instructions handed to him.

He was absolute rubbish at ICT. Whereas with other subjects the classroom was usually half-empty, and he seldom saw the same faces again, with ICT there was always a crowd. He was most of the time partnered for practical work with a boy from the Middle East. Abdul usually grabbed mouse and keyboard and worked away in a brave manner while Draco had nothing to do but to look on. Luckily, the bloke seemed to know what he was doing; they never got less than two thirds of the credits for a session. The downside was that Abdul rarely opened his mouth to give a word of explanation or to say anything at all.

When Abdul fell ill and Draco had to team up with Keesha-Jolene, a scrawny, slow-witted girl who hardly dared to touch a key, he accomplished nothing. He often botched up so badly, he had to re-start the machine. That was why he finally asked Jeffrey for help.

To Draco's discontent, Jeffrey turned out a to be horrible teacher. He couldn't explain very well, jumped from topic to topic, and left about every other sentence unfinished. Instead of giving clear and concise instructions so Draco might try his hand, he became quickly impatient and did everything himself. This way, Draco got a _work_ _account_ for the library as well as an _email_ _address_ – he had to remember a different password for each – but he didn't know in the least how to use them or how to bring some such thing about if need be.

He soon gave up on Jeffrey's "help". At that point, he had half a mind to drop ICT altogether. If the subject was compulsory for Muggles – so what? It wasn't compulsory for him.

He still went to the next training session because otherwise he would have had to idle away one and a half hour until the Science training started. For once, he had the workstation all to himself, and he just toyed around without proper aim and purpose. Things went surprisingly well. The machine obeyed his casual orders without arguing back or quitting its performance for no apparent reason. Thus slightly encouraged, Draco turned to his assignment despite his initial resolve to not even try. The first step worked just fine, and so did the second and the third one. Feeling thrilled, Draco leaned closer – and promptly, the spreadsheet malfunctioned.

Abdul returned the following week. He operated mouse and keyboard again, and Draco took notes. He carefully wrote down what keys Abdul pressed and recorded every mouse click. A lead to the correct working steps had to be somewhere in these protocols because Abdul scored more points with each training session.

Instead of preparing for oncoming ICT sessions, Draco spent time on analysing his notes. When he found recurring patterns, he learned the respective sequences by heart, hoping that repeating them would help him during the exam.

The instructors kept reminding the students to revise. But Draco couldn't afford the luxury of revising because he was still in the middle of learning things for the first time. Consequently, the exams approached much faster than he was prepared.

He sat one in the morning, started swotting up on the next after lunch, and struggled to fit in between some of the still unread books.

He skimmed through a number of biographies – Hannah Cowley, Robert Falcon Scott, Dorothy Hodgkin, and John Lennon – trying to grasp at least why these people were considered remarkable. He read a treatise about weather and climate the night before he had to sit the Geography exam. He rushed through an ancient Latin text on viticulture but gave up rather quickly on all books about image editing software, web design, and other computer-related topics.

...

79. Changes

After the last exam was over, it took him several days to emerge from the trance-like state into which he had worked himself. He felt drained. He didn't do much besides watching the sailing boats in the marina or prowling the pedestrian precinct. He spent the energy he could still muster on shopping for a few items of clothing – a pair of trousers, socks, shirts. He chose fabrics that were gentle to the skin and checked whether the stitching was neat and tidy, and he also made sure to buy only such clothes that allowed him to blend in with the crowd.

It was already summer. Without the cool breeze from the sea, the heat would have been almost unbearable. Autumn, winter and spring had passed without him paying any heed. But not only the seasons had gone by unnoticed. He had not thought of the Easter holidays of two years ago. He had not taken a break from learning on the first of May to remember the night of the battle. He had missed his own birthday again.

So, in a sense, the plan had worked. Distracting himself from his troubling memories had been a major objective. Aside from that, he had wanted to pick up a few scraps of useful knowledge here and there. Concerning himself with Muggle exams had definitely not been the plan. In the end, however, he had worried about nothing else than passing exactly those exams. Just how absurd was that? He couldn't even pinpoint the moment in time when he had begun to take seriously what had initially been a pretence intended to keep Mrs Highbury from getting more suspicious.

On the other hand, he had gained knowledge – quite a lot of it and in many areas: the _polyester_ that made up ten percent of the cloth of his trousers was a special type of plastic, the name of the present prime minister was Anthony Blair, and cars weren't powered by electricity but had to be fed with petrol. And that were just a few examples. He had discovered sciences he hadn't before known existed.

He hoped he had done well enough in the exams to be allowed to study Biology at "A-level". Yes, he would keep studying as long as it didn't draw suspicion to his person. A limited few of the answers he craved might be attainable in the world he currently resided in, and the laws of genetics seemed to be a promising start.

...

He bid Mrs Highbury goodbye for the summer and negotiated with Mrs Bates an absence of several weeks even though the landlady told him that he didn't have to leave this year. The twins would be staying so she couldn't let the flat to holidaying families anyway. But Draco longed for the beach. He longed for swimming and for sketching. He would be back by end of August, well in time for the new courses to start.

As he didn't have to carry his belongings to a locker in the basement this time, he merely tidied up his room. He wrapped little stacks of old banknotes into pieces of newsprint or put them into small plastic bags and stored the packages in his rucksack beneath towels and underwear. He would try to change as much money as possible in the course of the coming weeks so he wouldn't have to worry about fees and expenses for a long while afterwards.

...

He neared Trethwyn in early afternoon. Passing the village by, he headed straight for Mr Penwith's place. But the three small, old buildings weren't there. A big hole gaped in the ground where they had been. Two excavators were busy digging the hole even deeper.

Draco stood there for full ten minutes, staring in dismay at the scene.

Then he walked slowly downhill. There were changes in the village, too. The well was no longer dry. Thin jets of water trickled out of the nozzles. Four garish sun umbrellas stood on the pavement in front of the bakery. Plastic tables and chairs were crammed into the narrow spaces between them, and a small number of people sat there, taking tea or eating ice cream. Draco knew none of them. Tourists, he concluded.

He was a tourist himself. At least, that was what the villagers took him for. And he needed a bed for the night.

He went across the square and into the tourist office. The woman behind the counter recognised him instantly.

"Mr Malfoy!" she beamed. "Welcome back to Trethwyn."

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. And you?"

"Fine, too. But... what happened to Mr Penwith's house? Where is Mr Penwith?"

The questions wiped the smile off her face.

"He died," she said softly.

Draco shook his head. Jory had always talked about recovery!

"You didn't know, did you? I understand he had another heart attack, worse than the first. It happened in February; the exact date I don't know," the woman said. "Jenna, his daughter, took him straight from the hospital to Glasgow last October. She's married there, in Glasgow. I think Jory and his wife would have taken him in for the winter. Jory and Gorran Penwith were close; he would have been fine. But Jenna persuaded him to come with her. Or maybe he knew he hadn't much time left and wanted to see his grandchildren one last time. Frankly, I don't think the big city agreed with him. He wasn't a man for big cities." She paused and sighed. "Jenna sold the house a few weeks ago. She sold it to that Mr Webster, the son-in-law of the baker. He has some high-flying plans, that man – ice-cream parlours, wellness hotels, _golf_ _courses_. I'm not sure whether that will work out. Trethwyn isn't large enough for such stuff. There are already enough posh resorts around. People who want to spend their holidays in fancy nightclubs and at swimming pools go there. To Trethwyn, people come for the quiet and the intact landscape. I suppose you do. I doubt a golf course will appeal to our regulars. Maybe Mr Webster will lure a few moneyed tourists here, but we will probably lose in turn some of those who have come here for years. I'm afraid you'll be among that number. You're here to ask for an accommodation, right?"

Draco nodded.

"And here is where the trouble starts. With any truly low-cost alternative gone, prices are already rising. Mrs Craddick asks twelve Pounds now, breakfast included. But I'm afraid with her, breakfast will most likely mean a bit of toast and a cup of luke-warm tea. If I were you, I'd opt for _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. Agreed, it's not exactly cheap, but they serve a decent breakfast. It's the fairest deal you can get in Trethwyn these days."

"How much is a room per night?"

"Fifteen Pounds." She made an apologetic gesture. "I'm sorry."

"Well... I don't have much choice, do I?" he said while balancing the twice-as-high-as-expected price against the benefit of not having to spend money on breakfast at the baker's. It didn't quite even out.

"Here," she said and put two sheets of paper on the counter. One was for Tomas Gill, the pub owner, the other one was a sketchy map of the south coast with a lot of orange dots along the Coast Path. Each dot had a number. The woman turned the map over. "Here is a list of low-budget accommodations. I usually give it to backpackers who want to walk to Land's End or to St Ives. Just in case you'll decide you can't afford _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_ for the whole summer."

...

Draco didn't go to the pub directly. He ambled along the beach instead, lost in thought. Somehow, he had taken it for granted that he would find Mr Penwith feeding his chickens whenever he came here.

He remembered having read in a textbook that the average life expectancy for non-wizards was about seventy-five years, and Mr Penwith had probably been older than that. He told himself that they hadn't even been well acquainted. Draco hadn't known of a daughter Jenna or of any grandchildren, for example. All conversations they'd ever had strung together might amount to about half an hour.

He felt saddened nonetheless. Maybe the reason was that he had tried to save the old man. But his efforts had been futile...

Then again, if Mr Penwith had died that morning, lying in the dirt of the chicken run, he wouldn't have seen his daughter and his grandchildren again... All of a sudden, a memory floated up, a memory that had been buried very, very deep. Draco recalled the day of his grandfather's funeral. He had been made to wear formal dress robes, and his mother had explicitly forbidden him to cry, saying it would be indecorous and, above all, unmanly. Oh yes, he had wanted to be a man at the age of five and to prove his manliness to the rather large assembly of adults. Now, aged twenty, he didn't care anymore. He knew he was weak.

Rummaging around in his rucksack for more handkerchiefs, he gave in to tears he should have cried fifteen years ago.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

(*) Following a Muggle law of 1875 that made birth registration compulsory, the Ministry of magic took measures that ensured automated register entries for children born to wizarding parents. The objective was to prevent the recorded number of inhabitants to differ form the actual number of people in a given area lest such discrepancies make the Muggle authorities suspicious.

However, the practice was highly disputed, and especially more traditionally minded witches and wizards objected to it. Therefore, the set of employed charms was modified. The entries were still created automatically, but they were now charmed in a way that Muggle clerks would overlook them unless somebody enquired explicitly about a specified person.

Mrs Highbury made such an enquiry. Unsurprisingly, the civil servant found no information in the computer database because due to the applied magic all entries concerning the Malfoy family were overlooked during the IT changeover. The spells nevertheless worked properly – they made the Muggle remember the original recording written on paper.

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) My apologies for keeping you waiting again.

(2) Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.


	29. Part 29

80. The Merry Fisherman

It was the busiest hour of the evening when he arrived at _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. Every table on the terrace was occupied. There were a lot of people inside the pub as well, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Trying his best to ignore the stink, Draco joined the queue at the counter.

Mr Gill, while drawing beer, smiled at him in recognition.

"Welcome back," the short, plump man said when Draco had moved up the queue. "It's a bit crammed tonight I'm afraid. I recommend the fish pie. The steak and kidney is also great."

"Mr Gill-"

"Apple juice?" the man asked, already reaching for the bottle. "You don't like beer if I remember correctly."

"Mr Gill, I'd like to stay for the night," Draco said, putting the form he had got in the tourist office on the counter.

"Oh, right," Mr Gill said, slightly flustered. He pushed the paper back to Draco, simultaneously calling over his shoulder to someone in the kitchen, "Eva, a lodger!"

He turned back to Draco and said, "Well, we can have a little chat later. My wife will show you to your room. Just wait in the hall."

But Mrs Gill already appeared, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth. There was a brief, wordless exchange – a look, a gesture, a nod – between her and her husband. Then Mr Gill turned to the next patron, and Mrs Gill ushered Draco out into the hall.

"It's good seeing you again, Mr Malfoy," she said. "It's Mr Malfoy, right?"

"Yes, it is. Good evening, Mrs Gill."

"So, how long do you want to stay?"

"I haven't decided yet. I was planning to stay at Mr Penwith's, but since that obviously won't be possible... " He trailed off. When, for Merlin's sake, had the phrase _too_ _expensive_ _for_ _me_ taken root in his thinking?

"Yes, sad story," she said. "You know what? Tell me tomorrow how long you wish to stay. I'll just show you to your room, all right?"

"Yes, I-" He stopped again in mid-sentence. A neatly framed picture hanging on the wall right behind Mrs Gill had caught his eye.

Mrs Gill followed his gaze.

"Yes, we thought so, but we weren't entirely sure," she said. "We didn't find any signature."

Draco couldn't help but gape. Both sides of the hall were lined with framed pictures – there were Maiden's Cliff, the promontory, _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_ seen from various angles, the village square, and many more. He was standing in a gallery of his own sketches!

"How did you get them?" he managed at last.

"Jory found them. Before Jenna – late Mr Penwith's daughter – sold the house, he went through Gorran's things. It's not as if Gorran Penwith ever owned anything of great value, but Jory wanted a few keepsakes. He found some old photographs and some other stuff – and, well, a pile of lovely pictures showing the neighbourhood. We thought them way too pretty to throw them away. And now that we know they're yours and also how your name is properly spelled" – she glanced at the booking form he had handed her – we'll put your name here. Don't worry."

"No, you can't do that!" he cried, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice.

"Why not?" she asked, taken aback. "You look all upset, Mr Malfoy. What's wrong?"

"I'm not upset," he declared curtly. He couldn't risk his name being discovered by any witch or wizard who came here by chance, no matter how small that possibility was. "I merely don't want you to put my name here."

"Why not?"

"They aren't real works of art. They're only rough drafts. I did them because I wanted to see whether I could do them." He saw the look on her face change from bewilderment to disapproval. "That doesn't make any sense to you, does it?"

"Not really, no," she admitted. "I thought they were lovely pictures."

"Well, you can keep them if you like. But promise me not to tell anyone that _I_ did them."

"I won't if that makes you happy," she conceded reluctantly. "But I really don't see why. They are nice pictures."

"That's not the point. It's just" – he paused as finally an idea struck him. Sometime in the course of the last nine months, he had read about artists using _pseudonyms_. – "It's just that painters don't use their plain names. They work under _professional_ _names_."

"I see," she said, and her face lit up by some degree. "And what's yours?"

"Paul Williams," he said, combining two random names. "And Mrs Gill, don't put up anything that's not connected to Trethwyn in some way or other, especially do not put up pictures that show mythical creatures. It wouldn't be good if certain people found out about me sketching such beasts."

"Er..." she said. "I don't think I have seen any fairy-tale beasts, only sheep and seagulls."

"Good." He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Whoever had retrieved the sketches from the bin – Mr Penwith or Jory – had luckily ignored the ones that depicted the fire in the Room Of Requirement. "Sheep and seagulls are fine."

"That's settled, then?" Mrs Gill asked, her patience starting to wear thin. "Care to see your room now?"

He nodded, and she led the way upstairs.

The room was narrow and stuffy. The heating device beneath the window had a silvery coat of paint. The window opened to the backyard, and all Draco could see from there were a chalked wall and a thatched roof. Instead of smells of thyme and boxwood, cigarette smoke drifted in.

...

He spent most of his time outdoors. Walking to the promontory in the West and to Maiden's Cliff in the East, he reacquainted himself with the area. The landscape was as wide and windswept as he remembered it. The air tasted as fresh and salty as it had the previous years. Strolling along the beach was as pleasant as it had been. And yet, there was a difference. Mr Penwith's place – the buildings, the chicken run, and the neglected garden full of rose hips, sage and thyme – was gone. What was left was a carefully framed sketch hanging in a corner of _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. And Mr Penwith was buried somewhere in Scotland.

Draco went to watch the proceedings at the construction site. Sitting across the small stretch of grassland in the shade of the rampant hazel bush, he sketched the excavators and the big lorries that brought copious amounts of building material.

Sketching, he remembered the days when he had been here for the first time. He remembered the confused state of mind he had been in, his internal terror, and the nightmares. He remembered how he had struggled for a single hour of sleep.

He hadn't forgotten all the many questions starting with why that dated back to that time. Now, with no spreadsheets or essays to distract him, they were again very present in his mind. And he still had no answers.

He watched the construction workers labouring for almost an hour to remove a heavy slab of grey stone from the excavation pit. Erecting a new building where an old one had stood seemed to have similarities to rebuilding your life from ruins. Before you could set up something new, you had to form a solid foundation. Before that, you would probably have to dig a hole and before that, you had to clear away the wreckage.

Should he simply shove the debris aside, Draco wondered, or should he keep searching for things that were still intact and valuable? Was there more left of his former life than a few keepsakes?

...

81. Travelling with Strangers

In the evening of Draco's fourth day there, a group of young men arrived at the pub. Their English was rudimentary. It didn't suffice to read the menu, let alone to communicate their wishes to Mr Gill. One of them tried French, but Mr Gill's French was as poor as the stranger's English.

Draco, having finished his dinner, got up and stepped closer.

"Allow me to assist," he said to Mr Gill and asked the stranger, "Puis-je vous aider?"

Mr Gill sighed in relief. The stranger nodded enthusiastically.

Draco played the part of the interpreter for the whole evening. He helped the newcomers to check in and to order meals. Getting information across was anything but easy, though. Among themselves, the men talked in a language Draco had never heard, and only one of them spoke French well enough to form coherent sentences. So, in effect, everything had to be translated twice.

The foreigners were planning to walk to the southernmost region of Britain. They asked all sorts of questions concerning the area, questions that Draco found difficult to answer. In order to provide at least a modicum of information, he fetched the sketchy map of the Coast Path from his room. The men got very excited about the many orange dots on it. They also jumped to the conclusion that Draco intended to go to much the same places as they did and invited him straight off to come with them. Rather stunned by the unexpected proposition, Draco excused himself and went swimming.

...

He passed by the old signpost marking the point where the path that led to his preferred stretch of beach branched off the lane. The sign had become completely illegible over time. Two years ago, the words _Cliff_ and _Natur_ – without an _e_ – had still been discernible. Now only the capitalised _N_ was left.

Thanks to the late hour, the beach was deserted. Draco undressed and put two smooth, round stones on the pile of his clothes so the wind wouldn't blow them away. Then he rushed into the water and dived beneath a wave that was on the verge of breaking. The sea was almost too rough for swimming, and he ventured no further than where his feet could still touch the ground.

Back at the shore, he dried himself hurriedly since the air was chilly and the wind sharp.

Running back to the pub, he pondered the invitation. Should he really travel with a bunch of people from a foreign country? There was little doubt as to why they would like to have him with them – they were in dire need of an interpreter.

But was he up to the challenge?

Maybe he'd manage, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his room. Maybe the difficulties he usually experienced with informal conversations would be less severe. Lack of comprehension could easily be blamed on error in translation. Both sides would be faced with very much the same problem. They would have to simplify and rephrase their sentences until the other understood.

In a way, the offer of the strangers was tempting. He had already been to all post offices within a day's walking distance and would have to go further away this year in order to find new ones. Following the Coast Path for this purpose seemed a good choice because the clerks in the smaller villages were usually delighted to be able to help tourists and changed old banknotes for them without getting too curious.

And there'd be another benefit. Travelling in company, he would be less visible than when he walked on his own.

...

The next morning, Draco was the first at breakfast. He settled the bill with Mr Gill. Although the pub owner wore a mask of professional stoicism, Draco could tell the man was disappointed by his leaving after only a few days. That was why he opted for waiting outside.

The five strangers emerged around ten o'clock. When they learned Draco would be accompanying them, they were overjoyed. Laughing and joking – probably joking; Draco had mainly to judge by their facial expressions and tones of voice – they introduced themselves. They had zany names like Gyula and Zsolt, and the one who spoke French was Attila. Attila, a sheepish grin on his face, admitted that none of them had really caught Draco's name the previous night.

Shaking off the surprise, Draco made a spontaneous decision. He told them to call him _Paul_. They were perfectly content with that, and he remained Paul for the entire time of their journey. Whenever a landlady or landlord asked his name, he gave it as Paul Williams together with a likewise made-up address. Nobody ever paid much heed. People were usually more intent on checking the Hungarians' passports.

...

His travel companions were a cheery, easy-going lot. Draco got along with them quite well even though verbal conversation was always protracted. He learned from Attila a small selection of words that helped to coordinate their activities. _Eszik_, for instance, could be used to suggest eating, and _alvás_ meant sleeping. His companions resorted to pantomime and crazy gesticulation if words failed them; he drew them comic strips if he needed to get a point across.

The people he sketched no longer looked invariably like Vincent Crabbe, but depicting faces was still a difficult, time-consuming task. Most times, he therefore drew only a simplified human shape and put for clarification the first letter of the name on the chest of the respective person – _A_ttila, _F_erenc, _G_yula, _K_ároly, _P_aul, _Z_solt.

He did all the vital talk with third parties – shop assistants, innkeepers, or landladies – and he always volunteered to go and buy stamps for the innumerable picture postcards that Attila and his friends wrote home. He often ran errands alone, thus getting plenty of opportunity to change old banknotes.

Concerning the route that should be taken, however, he didn't have much input. His fellow travellers were not inclined to simply follow the Coast Path. Navigating with the help of a map and a magnetic compass, they made detours to every site that they thought remarkable enough to take a closer look at. They dragged Draco to ruined castles and lovely gardens, to abandoned coalmines and, once, to a museum full of rusty machinery and broken tools. When they realised he had no swimming trunks, they lured him into a huge shop – one that had moving stairs – where they made him buy a ridiculously coloured piece of clothing. Afterwards they marched him straight to the nearest beach so he could give the new purchase an outing.

To his astonishment, Draco didn't mind much. He didn't even protest sleeping in large dormitories as long as he could rent a locker for his rucksack. After about a fortnight, he silently conceded that he felt more tranquil than he had in years. Whether he had ever felt exactly like he did in the company of Attila and the others was hard to decide because five or fifteen years ago, his life had been much too different to be compared to the present situation.

Needless to say, fate took care to remind him of who and what he was.

...

82. Repello Muggeltum

Draco's companions liked to sleep in, and this day wasn't different. While they dawdled the morning hours away, he went swimming. Having bathing trunks now, he didn't have to seek out special places. This was the one thing that could be said in favour of bathing trunks. Apart from that, he didn't like them much. They were uncomfortably tight and looked just silly. Wearing them, swimming felt less good than it did otherwise. He couldn't put it into words, but he had a feeling that something essential was missing.

When he returned from the beach, the others were still busy packing up. He filled the old hip flask – the one he had nicked at Runcorn's – and a plastic bottle with water from the tap. Then he waited for his fellow travellers to get ready.

They set off at half past ten. The weather was nice – neither too hot nor too windy – and the trail led slightly away from the actual coast, providing great views of scenic landscape.

Zsolt took photographs. Ferenc and Gyula were immersed in what seemed to be an endless debate. Draco didn't know what the topic was and didn't bother to ask, either. If it were important for him to know, Attila would volunteer information.

They had lunch – somewhat belatedly – at a mobile food stall near a large car park. For some reason, the other four kept poking fun at Károly throughout the meal. Eventually, Károly stalked off. The others chuckled, by the look of it in anticipation of more entertainment. When Károly came back, he said something that made them roar with laughter. This time, Attila felt compelled to explain to Draco what the hilarity was about. But despite Attila's best efforts, Draco didn't get the point.

He smiled politely and asked, "Lépni?"

_Lépni_ meant something along the line of walking or moving. Whether it was a finite or non-finite form of the verb he wasn't sure. He had given up on the grammar of the strange language. There seemed to be no such thing as a discernible sentence structure.

Sure enough, his rudimentary question put him into the centre of attention. Everybody talked to him at the same time, gesticulating and grimacing. Draco shook his head and raised his hands in a silent gesture, indicating his lack of comprehension.

In all the hubbub, Attila snatched the map that Zsolt had taken out, wrote something in the margin, and pushed it to Draco. The others quieted down.

_laissez_-_le_ _aller_ = _menjünk_ Draco read.

"Je comprends," he said. "Menjunk? Menjunk szálló?"

The others gave some vague nods; Attila padded his shoulder.

Draco inched away from him.

"Yeah, it _might_ help if you could be bothered to learn a bit of English," he muttered under his breath, but his grumpy remark went unheeded because Zsolt had repossessed himself of the map and was now indicating their current position. He also pointed to the place – _Ifjúsági_ _szálló_ the map said – where they intended to stay for the night.

Apparently, Draco's companions had realised that they should get a move on. It was already well past three in the afternoon, and they were still several miles away from their destination. Draco was therefore not surprised when they, after a short debate, decided on a shortcut. Zsolt communicated their plan to Draco by moving his thumb several times in a straight line from the car park across a vast expanse of pastures to the hostel.

...

Attila, compass in his hands, led the way. Zsolt let Károly have his camera.

Draco tuned out Ferenc and Gyula's bickering and listened to the sounds of nature around him. Birds sang, insects hummed, and the wind rustled softly through the leaves of the greenery on the hedge. They followed that hedge for nearly half an hour. At several occasions, they had to walk in single file and very close to the earthwork because the grass grew waist-high. But by and large, walking across the meadows was rather pleasant.

They were climbing a moderately steep slope when all five of Draco's companions suddenly stopped in their tracks, turned and – with many worried exclamations – rushed back downhill. Stunned, Draco watched their strange behaviour. When he glanced at the impressive house on top of the hill, realisation struck. He ran after the others, every bit as alarmed as they were.

Running, he recalled Greengrass talking about the substantial property that her parents had acquired somewhere in the southwest of England. Whether or not the manor on this hill here was the one she had ceaselessly boasted about during their last year at Hogwarts he didn't know, but he sure as hell wasn't going to hang around until he found out.

Even after the house was well out of sight, the others kept up their mad dash, pushing through waist-high grass without slowing down for a second. Draco followed. He had absolutely no desire to meet whoever lived on top of the hill.

He stopped when he reached the car park, knowing that he was back on safe territory. He called after his companions, who continued to speed-walk into an entirely wrong direction.

"Attila, attendez-moi!" he yelled at full volume because they were already several hundred yards away.

He tried to recall how the bloody charm worked. He had never cast one himself. He hadn't even seen one taking effect before today. Did it wear off all by itself? And if so, how long did that take?

"Wait!" he yelled again. "Attendez-moi!"

He saw his companions come to a halt. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he trudged after them. It had been a long time since the rucksack had felt so heavy on his shoulders. His best option might be to pretend he didn't understand if Attila asked tricky questions...

However, when he finally reached the little group of people with whom he had spent the last weeks, they were chatting cheerfully. Draco had no way of knowing what they were talking about, but he looked at their merry faces, saw everyone's relaxed posture, and heard the impending laughter in their voices. They seemed perfectly fine, and the questions Attila asked in his clumsy French amounted to nothing more serious than _Are_ _you_ _tired_? _Are_ _we_ _walking_ _to_ _fast_ _for_ _you_?

Either the memory of what had just happened had already erased itself from their minds, or some appended curse hindered them to perceive the peculiarity of their recent behaviour. There was a decidedly awkward component to each alternative Draco thought.

He shook his head in response to Attila's questions and motioned for Zsolt to give him the map. Zsolt, shrugging and unconcerned, handed it over.

The magnificent house on the hill wasn't shown on the map. Unplottable, Draco concluded. This added to his conviction that he didn't want to be seen by the people who lived there.

"Y at-il un problème, Paul?" Attila asked.

"Oui."

Draco put his finger to the point on the map that marked the place where they stood. Then he traced the road back to the car park. From there, he followed with his finger a lane that circled in a wide arc around the expanse of grassland. He repeated the motions, and Attila got the hint.

...

The walk was long and strenuous. Ferenc and Gyula's daylong debate soon petered out. Attila, Zsolt, and Károly kept silent as well, saving their breath and their strength for the lane that undulated endlessly through the countryside.

Draco's thoughts returned again and again to the photographs Károly had taken with Zsolt's camera. Would there be something in those pictures, something neither Károly nor his friends would remember to have ever seen? Or would they be empty, and Károly would believe that he had made some mistake with the borrowed camera like, for instance, not removing the lens cap?

When they reached the hostel, they were tired, starving, and soaked to the skin. It had been pouring with rain for the entire last hour of their walk.

The cook had already gone home. Some other employee fetched milk and cornflakes for them while they took a hot shower to get a bit of warmth back into their limbs.

They wolfed down the improvised meal in unwonted silence.

Whereas the others mumbled a quiet _Jó_ _éjszakát_ afterwards and shuffled off to their chambers, Draco went back to the now empty washroom. He was as tired as the rest of them, but he doubted that he would be able to sleep. Witnessing utterly unsuspecting people being hexed – people who didn't even know magic existed! – had stirred up his least-favourite memories.

Scrutinising his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he felt a pang of guilt. What for, he wasn't sure.

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...

Author's note:

Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.

Note added on Dec 12, 2013:

I corrected the spelling of _Gyula_. Thank you, poppaeasabina, for pointing out the error.


	30. Part 30

83. Back to Trethwyn

Not long after, it was time for Attila, Ferenc, Gyula, Károly, and Zsolt to return home. Draco's last task was to see them off to a bus station. He steeled himself in advance for possible hugs and handshakes, so he was able to cope with them when they actually came. Then he stood aside and watched the Hungarians board the bus that would take them to an _airport_.

Draco had read about airports in a textbook. They were places where _aeroplanes_ took off or landed. Aeroplanes were a means of mass transportation and up to ten times as large as a bus. How things so big and heavy could launch themselves into the air was one of the wonders of Muggle technology. But fly they did. Draco had seen them travelling high in the sky where they glistened in the sunlight and left long and narrow clouds behind.

So there was no need to worry about Attila and the others. They would arrive at Budapest safely.

But how did he go back?

He berated himself for his lack of prudence – instead of asking his travel companions what they were planning he had foolishly assumed they would return with him to _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. It wasn't the first time that he had made this sort of mistake. A year ago, after he had failed to give Mrs Bates sufficient notice of his wish to stay for the summer, he had resolved to be more careful in the future. But here he stood – alone in a town he didn't know and faced with the challenge of having to walk a hundred miles, or thereabouts, on his own.

Where did such carelessness stem from? It was decidedly un-Slytherin.

Was the old arrogance rearing its head again, the arrogance that dated back to a time when he had believed the Malfoys to be the centre of the universe and all other people to be obliged to conduct themselves in a way that pleased his family? This belief was as wrong as it was ridiculous, and the memory of how he had acted on it in the past was mortifying.

Then why did his attitude seem unchanged? Why did he still behave as if other people didn't have plans and intentions of their own? He knew no answer. He pushed the vexing matter aside because he had to deal with the more immediate problem of finding the way back to Trethwyn.

He hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulders and went to study the timetable.

Most busses went to the airport. There were a few that served some neighbouring villages or towns, but he rejected the idea of picking a destination shown as being situated east of his current position because the displayed map was anything but true to scale. There was no telling where he would end up, and he had absolutely no desire to repeat another of his follies and struggle through an odyssey like the one from Runcorn's cottage back to his lodgings at Yule two years ago.

No, he wasn't going to take any chances. He would keep to known territory and follow the well-marked Coast Path. Many people were hiking it in both directions at this time of the year, which was, actually, a plus. The incident with the warded house on the hill had taught him how vital it was for him to have not only telephone boxes or power transmission lines in sight at all times but also a person who was susceptible to _Repello Muggletum._

...

The Coast Path was as well-frequented as he had hoped. He never walked entirely alone. He never drew unwelcome attention to his person, either. To the casual observer, his appearance hardly differed from that of an average backpacker of his age. Not even his rucksack, which didn't show the glaring colours typical of Muggle equipment, attracted more than a curious glance once in a while.

Skipping all the detours to old castles and other tourist attractions, he made good progress. As he didn't need to spend hours on choosing picture postcards and writing them, he was able to cover fifteen to twenty miles a day.

The night before he reached Trethwyn – he was in a little holiday resort where he had changed old banknotes the previous summer – Paul Williams transmuted back into Draco Malfoy. There was no point in maintaining the assumed identity any longer. People knew him as Draco Malfoy – Mrs Highbury and Mrs Bates did so as well as the Gills, the lady in the tourist office of Trethwyn, and Jory. Maybe that was just as well. If he had chosen to go by a fake name two years ago, his life now would not be the way it was. Despite all her skill and unwavering patience, Mrs Highbury wouldn't have been able to come by a Birth Certificate for a non-existent person.

...

The Gills seemed delighted to see him again. The room he got was slightly better than the one before, mainly because the window opened to a neighbouring vegetable garden.

He noted that the pictures lining the walls now all had captions like "_Maiden's Cliff by __Paul Williams__, 1999"_ or "_The Merry Fisherman seen from the South-East by __Paul Williams__, 1999"_. He wasn't sure whether he should feel embarrassed or amused.

However, spurred on by all those pictures, he set himself a task. A few days still remained until his planned return to the city, and he spent them sketching.

...

84. Opinions

Draco sat on a bench near the Coast Path and did the finishing touches to the picture he intended to give to the Gills. When he raised his gaze for a moment he saw Jory walking up to him.

Draco stood to greet him. They shook hands and exchanged the customary pleasantries.

"I haven't seen you all summer," Jory said. "Tomas Gill tells me you ran off with a bunch of foreigners."

"They were from Hungary, and they needed an interpreter."

"You speak Hungarian? Fancy that!"

"No, I don't," Draco said and explained how they had communicated with the help of comic strips and a little bit of French.

"Sounds pretty complicated to me," Jory commented. He gestured to the bench. "Shall we?"

They sat down side by side, and Jory glanced curiously at Draco's sketchpad. Draco, who was indeed interested in Jory's opinion, handed the latest picture over.

"That's Gorran!" Jory exclaimed.

"It's supposed to be him, yes. The posture and the general appearance seem to be all right, but I have difficulty drawing his face. That's why he is having his back half turned to the beholder and looking down at his chickens."

"But that's exactly how one would have seen Gorran when walking by his place – dressed in his old grey jacket and feeding his chickens." Jory gave the sketch back. "You've got talent."

"Thank you."

"Well, I mean it. Although I have to admit that I don't really understand much about arts. Pictures like yours I can appreciate, but all that modern stuff... you know, pictures where you can't tell what is bottom and what is top. That's not my cup of tea."

"I'm not really an artist. The people around here just made that up."

Jory nodded mutely. He took a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it.

"I meant to ask you about this," he said softly, holding it out to Draco.

Draco sucked in a breath and looked away.

"Why did you take it from the bin?" he asked.

"I didn't. The stack of sketches lay next to the kitchen stove. I reckon Gorran took them from the bin, probably thinking it would be a grievous waste of good paper if he didn't use it for getting the stove going. He was that kind of man," Jory said quietly. "There were nearly a hundred pictures like this one here. Does it show a blazing inferno or a horde of animals? To me, it looks like flames with gaping maws, and fangs. What does that mean?"

"You don't want to know."

"Try me."

Draco glanced at the man. Jory looked calm and serious. Nothing in his features hinted at either impending mockery or rebuke.

"That fire was at my school. One of my classmates died in it. I'm only sitting here because somebody pulled me out in the nick of time." He rushed the words out. He didn't want to think about what they implied: He owed Potter. He owed bloody Potter and his cronies. "That's it, put into a nutshell."

"I thought it was something like that," Jory said. "When you're with the police, you get to see things. It's not as if this neighbourhood is a stronghold of crime, but you still get to see one thing or another. Coming within an inch of dying is a creepy experience. It leaves its mark on people."

He fell silent and regarded Draco.

Draco said nothing. Of course, the events had left their marks on him, both on his body and his soul.

"I think you've got talent," Jory broke the silence. "Your pictures look alive, kind of. How shall I put it? When you don't look directly but only glance at them out of the corner of your eye, then you get the impression that something in the picture has just moved. Sorry, I'm talking nonsense."

"Don't apologise," Draco mumbled, squinting at the chickens on the sketch in his hand. They did not move; he was sure of that. You needed spells to animate a picture.

Then again, he was a human being capable of working magic. Could it possibly be that some raw magic leaked accidentally and affected the sketches? He'd be truly surprised. His raw magic had never been much to take into account. He didn't burst windowpanes by simply becoming angry; he had to hurl something solid at them if he wanted the glass smashed. He remembered venting his frustration by beating a large marble statue to dust in the Room of Requirement. He had used a club for that because no matter what amount of distress might have screamed from within him to be let out, he wouldn't have caused a single crack in the polished surface of the ugly thing if he had hit it with his raw magic.

He forced his thoughts back to the present. He had to give Jory an answer, and his explanation had better be dull and mundane.

"That effect is probably due to the shadows not being done accurately," he said.

"Oh, I see," said Jory, sounding slightly disappointed. "Anyway, I'm glad Eva agreed to putting up your pictures of Trethwyn where people can see them. Especially because your works may soon be all that's left of the good old place."

Draco looked up in surprise.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, should that Mr Webster – the businessman from London who married the baker's daughter – get his way, Trethwyn won't be the same anymore. He says what he's doing will boost business. But will that be only his business or that of others as well? And then there are those who object and say we'll lose our 'unique selling position', meaning the tranquillity will be gone once the streets are clogged with cars. Sorry for ranting. I just have mixed feelings about Webster's plans. There are a sizable number of regulars who have come here for years, if not for decades. They come for the quiet, the scenery and-"

Jory broke off and kicked a pebble across the path. He kicked it with force, as if there was pent-up anger that sought an outlet.

Draco didn't miss that little detail. He studied Jory's gloomy face but said nothing.

The man snorted. "There's probably nobody going to admit it openly, but two thirds of our regulars are naturists. People in Trethwyn have made no small part of their living off the so-called weirdoes for the twenty-five years or so since the _Cliff Sun Club_ has been established. I remember the collective outcry when it transpired that Amy Coad, the old nutcase, had sold her property to the British Naturist Society. People around here have opinions about such things."

He kicked another stone.

"Opinions about what?" Draco asked tentatively.

"About walking around stark naked."

"But..." Draco stopped, took a deep breath and started anew. "Is it against the law to swim in a state of undress?"

Jory shrugged. "It's legal as long as the naturists stay in their enclave."

Draco allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

"You do go there, don't you?" Jory asked.

"Would you mind if I did?"

"It's none of my business, really. You're a young man and of age. I presume you can handle yourself. So, if you like to go skinny-dipping you can do just that."

"But you sound upset," Draco observed.

"I'm upset because of Webster and his latest designs. He wants to rid Trethwyn of the naturists. More exactly, he wants to buy the property of the _Club_ because he needs it for the golf grounds he is planning. But the Naturist Society isn't interested in selling and that's why Webster is now proclaiming that the existence of the _Club_ will hamper future business. I was there when he made one of his grand speeches about 'boosting moral' and 'nipping criminal activities in the bud', and I told him that the _Club_ has hampered nothing, especially not business, for the past twenty five years and that the criminal activities on the naturists' beach have amounted to nothing more serious than pinching purses and starting campfires. And you know what he did then? He asked me how I would like it if _my_ daughters walked around in their birthday suit. What a nerve! Of course, I would _not_ like it. Isabel turned sixteen in April and Betsy is fourteen – _of course_, I would mind if some greasy old lard arse were ogling their bits. But I couldn't say _that_ out loud, not with half of the village population listening in."

The news alarmed Draco. His former lodgings had been Vanished already, and now his preferred bathing place was in jeopardy as well.

...

85. A Father's Woes

"Do I understand correctly that Mr Webster wants the beach all for himself?" Draco asked to confirm his suspicion.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I suspect he wants the whole village. And he's a complete jerk for bringing the subject of my daughters into the argument. He was trying to bait me, but he'll have to try harder than that."

"Bait you?" Draco wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

"Certainly. He wanted me to say that I would never allow my girls to go to a naturists' refuge. If I had done him that favour, he'd now tell everybody even I objected to the _Cliff Sun Club_. Which is not true. I don't object to the _Club_ as such. Whoever wants to go there has the right to do so. Whoever doesn't like it can stay away. And since it's a bit of an out-of-the-way area people aren't too likely to walk there by accident, at least not if they can read."

Jory made as if to kick another pebble but apparently thought better of it. He placed his foot slowly and deliberately beside the small black piece of flint and continued, "People _are_ different – they have different beliefs and opinions, they lead their lives in different ways. That's all right as long as they obey the law. That's the main guideline in my job, and I can't go and talk or act differently in private. That wouldn't do. People would stop to respect me."

"Do you think it is important what people say or think about you?" Draco asked, trying to follow Jory's line of argument. "How much does reputation matter to you?"

"Reputation," Jory said slowly and scratched his neck, "reputation is more on the surface, Draco. People can have a high repute _and_ be downright gits behind their shiny facade. I'm talking about integrity. I need to stay true to myself. That is what matters to me."

The concept of an impressive facade shielding the far less impressive person behind was all too familiar to Draco. He suppressed a sigh.

"How do you-" he broke off, not sure what it really was he wanted to ask.

"How do I stay upright and do not succumb to a pushy git like Webster? Well, verbal assault is something a policeman learns to deal with. The best strategy for impertinent questions is to not dignify them with answers. So, I turned the tables on him and asked whether he thought he would make lots of friends by discussing intimate topics in public, and why he thought the way I raise my children had anything to do with his attempt to buy another estate in Trethwyn. That stumped him sufficiently. And I had the impression that part of the audience had not yet been aware how well his selfless campaign against the 'hotbed of immorality' matches with his business interests. I think he deserved the little damper. What angers me most is how he is using people's secret fears to sway them to his side. My girls are rebellious enough to do something that might embarrass me. It grieves me to see them in their crazy clothes – skimpy skirts, and blouses that look as if they were wearing them inside out. Not to mention Isabel's most recent hairstyle." He sighed. "But what can I do? They are young and go for what they believe is modern and fashionable."

"Would you want your daughters to respect tradition more than they do, Jory?" Draco asked, intrigued by the man's openness. "Do you set great store by tradition?"

Jory gave him a quizzical look.

"Being traditional doesn't necessarily mean being good," he said then. "Tradition is fine, but there also has to be change. It can't be any other way. There's a difference, though, whether something is old and obsolete and making people unhappy or whether somebody wants to tear down things – facilities that are still intact and working just fine – because he hopes to make more profit with something new. That is _my_ opinion, Draco. Not everyone shares it. There are those who would like to maintain tradition at all costs and others who say only progress matters and is worth a few sacrifices along the way." Jory shifted slightly to the side and turned to face Draco more fully. "And as for my daughters' silly clothing habits – well, I'm afraid I'll have to put up with it. In all likelihood, they'll grow out of it," he continued. "When I was young, a bit younger than you're now, I walked around in rhinestone-studded shirts and trousers made of purple velvet – very much to my father's chagrin."

Draco almost gasped. "You wore special garments to spite your father?"

Jory chuckled.

"I wore those 'special garments' in order to draw the eyes of pretty girls." He smiled wistfully. "Well, it worked... in a way."

"But your father was angry with you."

"Yes, he was. Quite often. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But I never annoyed him on purpose. It was more like accepting an unpleasant side effect that couldn't be avoided. I'm not particularly proud of it."

"Did he-" Draco hesitated. Jory didn't seem to mind answering personal questions, but Draco feared this one went beyond the limit.

"Did he do what?" Jory prompted.

"Forgive you?" Draco said it so quietly, the words were barely audible.

"Of course," Jory said, speaking very softly as well. He shoved the piece of flint aside that had lain next to his right foot. Then he went on at normal volume, "Of course, he's forgiven me. He loves me. He loves me no less than I love my daughters."

There was minor pause, but before Draco had the chance to digest what had just been said Jory continued, "I'll tell you something, Draco, something I've kept pretty much to myself until now. When my girls were cute little toddlers – well, Isabel was a toddler; Betsy was still in the pram – back then I made a silent promise. I made it only to myself; not even my wife knows. I promised that I would always put what is best for my children before what is best for me. But I had to learn that such things are more easily said than done. I'm only human; I'll make mistakes like everybody else. But that's not even the real problem. The real trouble is that deciding on behalf of somebody else is much more difficult than making decisions that are only for yourself. I'll give you an example: What if my girls _want _to go to the _Cliff Sun Club_ one day? What am I to do then? It's just hypothetical – Isabel hasn't mentioned any such wish yet, and Betsy is simply too young – but what if? Should I deny them to go and risk bringing about heated disputes and ceaseless quarrels and all that unpleasant stuff that is bound to ruin domestic harmony in the end? Or should I let them go despite my better judgement – or what I believe to be my better judgement, anyway – and risk them running into serious trouble? Perhaps getting pregnant at the age of seventeen? I honestly don't know. It's got nothing to do with obeying laws and following guidelines. There are no guidelines for this sort of decision. Look, last year, when Jenna came to fetch her father, I had to decide whether to let him go with her or to invite him to stay with me for the winter. I knew, I just knew, I would regret either choice. I knew that I wouldn't see him again if he went with her. But if I had insisted on him staying here, I would most likely have robbed him of his last chance to see his grandsons. Even now, in hindsight, I'm not sure I did the right thing. It can't be helped, though. I will have to live with that unanswered question."

Draco listened with bated breath even though Jory kept meandering between topics that hardly concerned Draco directly. But he was intrigued, most uncommonly intrigued, because Jory wasn't dishing out time-hallowed truths. Instead, he was voicing worries and _doubts_.

"Draco, do you think it would be safe for a teenage girl to go to the _Cliff Sun Club_?"

It took Draco a moment to realise that the question hadn't been rhetorical.

"I'm afraid I cannot not help you with that. I've never noticed" – He heard the note of uncertainty in his voice. What was the appropriate phrasing? – "I've never noticed activities that would be suited to cause pregnancy."

"Sorry; I didn't mean to embarrass you," Jory said, sounding slightly embarrassed himself. "I just thought you might have some insight."

Insight? Into what? As a matter of fact, Draco didn't feel so much embarrassed than completely at sea. Pansy had known a spell that prevented pregnancy. Which was, by the way, another clue that she had benefited from her mother's guidance. He hadn't been knowledgeable at all. He had tried to discuss the subject matter with Zabini, but Zabini had brushed him off. And, of course, he didn't have the faintest idea how the problem was dealt with in a world where spells didn't exist. Besides, why would anyone proceed to have intercourse in public? Then again, why would anyone choose to appear nude in public or, more to the point, why would anyone wish to swim? These questions and their answers belonged to this world here. Whatever he might have learned in his former life didn't apply.

"No, I'm afraid I don't have much insight into anything," he said softly. "Besides, I only go to that special stretch of beach when there are few people around, preferably none at all. I go there late in the evening, around nightfall, or very early in the morning before everybody else is up."

"Why's that?" Jory asked, perplexed.

"I don't know. I seem to have a lot of quirky habits that I can't really explain. Maybe it's just that I didn't own swimming trunks in the beginning. And now... now I've come to like the feeling of water on skin. Wearing trunks somehow diminishes the pleasure."

"And here I thought to see and to be seen was an essential part of the naturist experience."

"I wouldn't know, Jory. I'm not acquainted with any of the people you call naturists. Their place suits me. That is why I go there, and nobody has ever chased me off or said that I had no business being there."

"No, it's all right. You don't need to be a club member."

"I wasn't even aware..." he trailed off. The thought that he might be trespassing on private property had never occurred to him. "Never mind."

"You can talk, Draco. It's all right."

"Talk about what?" Draco asked more sharply than intended. Talking about nudity was decidedly awkward but safe. What did Jory, who was obviously unable to keep to one topic for long, want now?

The silence stretched for almost a whole minute. Jory didn't answer, and Draco waited, hoping the other wouldn't come up with a question that tempted him to violate the _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_.

Finally, Jory reached into his breast pocket again. This time, he took out a little piece of white cardboard.

"Draco, I don't mean to impose. Just keep this."

Draco took the proffered card and studied it. It held Jory's full name, an address, and two rows of digits.

"Is this your phone number?" Draco asked, indicating the lower half of the card.

"Yes, both landline and mobile," Jory said, rising. Draco followed suit. "Draco, I know it can be hard to ask for help. But should you feel one day like you would want somebody to help you then call me. Don't wait until it's too late."

"But..." Draco felt stunned almost beyond words. The conversation had taken many unexpected turns, but an unreserved offer of help topped all previous surprises. "Why... what makes you think-"

"What makes me think you might need help?" Jory said. "I can tell when somebody carries a lot of weight with them. And you do. Hundreds of pictures showing a classroom on fire, going on holidays with people whose language you don't understand – that all tells a story."

Draco was at a loss for words. He was suddenly conscious of Jory's sincerity. There was no patronising attitude and no fake joviality. And, standing face to face with the man, Draco saw something else: he was taller than Jory, not by much, one inch perhaps, but taller; he didn't have to look up. He knew he was taller than Mrs Highbury or Mrs Bates or his mother, but that hadn't led him to realise that he was, physically, a grown man.

"Thanks," he managed eventually.

"You're welcome," Jory said, turning to leave. "See you around."

"I... I'm about to return to the city," Draco said as Jory took the first step away. "Term starts."

"Oh, right. I see. Good luck, then," Jory smiled. "What are you studying, anyway?"

"I want to study genetics. I hope my exams were good enough so that I'll be allowed to continue."

"Well then, I wish you all the best," Jory said, coming back to give Draco a brief hug.

Draco let it happen, wondering why he didn't mind.

...

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...

Author's note:

Many thanks go to Kevyn, TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.


	31. Part 31

86. Privacy

Draco lay awake that night, but not because the usual unwelcome memories of past events bothered him. Jory's remark about seeing and being seen kept him from sleeping.

He was not particularly enthusiastic about being seen, and that was probably the main reason why he preferred to go for a swim when he had the beach to himself.

But seeing was a different matter.

He had long since stopped feeling embarrassed by the way his body reacted to the abundance of female attributes displayed on the beach – on any beach, not only on the one that belonged to the naturists. Strangely enough, tiny knickers and ornate brassieres seemed to intensify the reaction rather than to mitigate it. As long as he was clothed – fully clothed; bathing trunks were useless in that respect – he simply endured the state of arousal. Wearing his shirt over his trousers helped to conceal the outer evidence.

Cold water had a quenching effect, if only a temporary one. Admittedly, the tricky part could be to dive into the sea before people had a chance to notice his condition. Here was probably another reason why he went swimming at nightfall. Darkness conveniently obscured not only the problem but also the beauties who caused it in the first place.

On the whole, he didn't mind seeing girls or young women on the beach because they had a tendency of appearing in his dreams – dreams from which he would wake panting and sweating, dreams that would result in wet pyjama trousers. He liked these dreams. There was no denying it. He really, really liked them. They were transitory moments of bliss in his otherwise rather blissless life.

They had become more regular lately. Two or three of these dreams per week were by no means uncommon. He had got used to laundering pyjamas in the morning. During the journey with the Hungarians, however, he hadn't always had an opportunity to launder clothes and to dry them afterwards. So, he had pushed his pyjama trousers off as soon as he'd been safely between the sheets, thus leaving the possible task of dealing with stained bed linen to whoever had to tidy up after the lodgers.

Although he truly liked having these dreams, he had never tried to bring them about deliberately. They just happened or did not happen. That was why he wondered what he should do right now. Musing about good-looking girls and young women had led to a swollen membrum virile. He supposed he could go for a swim despite the late hour, but he didn't want to. He wanted a dream to take care of the little – or not quite so little – problem.

The trouble was that he would have to fall asleep before he could have any dream, but that falling asleep was somewhat unlikely considering the way his member throbbed.

He squeezed it in an attempt to ease the throbbing, but the result was anything but soothing. Against all logic, he squeezed again. He simply couldn't help himself. The memory of a gorgeous brunette woman clad in extraordinarily tight trousers and a flimsy, see-through blouse that gave more away than it obscured filled his mind. They had passed her by on a beach near Penzance, and the Hungarians had turned their heads as one man. He had gaped, too. Now, lying in his bed, he imagined touching the transparent fabric and feeling the warmth of the body beneath.

The women in his dreams were never completely nude. As a minimum, they wore a two-piece bathing costume. Sometimes they were dressed in gossamer blouses or ones that were drenched in spilled coffee. Frilly brassieres that begged to be taken off featured in his dreams, and so did undershirts made of smooth silk.

In reality, he had only ever seen silken underwear on Pansy.

And there was another memory from his school days. He recalled a hissed argument between Zabini and Nott. He had overheard them by chance and only for a short moment. They had been going on about "taking things in one's own hand". Back then – it had been shortly after the start of the Triwizard Tournament – he hadn't been all too sure about who was supposed to take what in hand. But he had a pretty good idea now.

He adjusted his fingers a little. It felt good, but already the slightest movement triggered an irrepressible desire for more – for more movement, for more... well, just for more. He gave in. He wrapped his fingers more firmly around his member and moved them back and forth. With every move, the desire intensified. It grew into a pressing need, plainly physical and urgent. Letting go of all inhibitions, he moved his fingers faster and firmer and experienced some sort of seizure – the muscles in his legs contracted, the muscles in his abdomen followed suit, and the pull was strong enough to lift his head and upper torso off the mattress. It hurt, and he cried out as a series of spasms ripped through him while the gooey, white liquid emerged in several spurts. Simultaneously, waves of golden relief travelled through his body and let him collapse back onto the pillow. He breathed heavily; his hand fell limply to his side.

Why had he never done this before?

...

87. Morning Swim

He woke around dawn, and the question was back immediately: Why had he never done anything similar to what he did last night?

Why, indeed?

He couldn't think of any answer.

Doing what he had done last night was easy, perfectly easy. There was no special skill necessary. So why had he never done it before?

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he would repeat it from now on – over and over again. He wouldn't be able to resist even if he tried to, but the truth was that he had not the slightest intention of resisting.

The warmth and drowsiness afterwards had surpassed the similar effect that crying had for him. Although the difference between crying and last night's event was quite obvious, there were parallels as well. Both were private, very private. Both required giving up control, letting the body take the lead. And in both cases there was the reward – immediate and basic and physical.

Not being able to cry had been absolutely terrible. He had got that gift back almost exactly one year ago. Yes, being able to cry was a gift, and what he had discovered last night was one, too. He wasn't going to disregard it. What was more, he wasn't going to feel guilty about making use of it. No, this time he wasn't going to feel guilty. He didn't care what anybody had to say about this. He wasn't going to listen to anyone who tried to tell him how this was wrong for whatever effing reasons or how it was just another sign of weakness. No, not this time. This was about _his_ body, and _his_ pleasure – finally a source of pleasure that nobody had to give him permission for, finally something that was his and only his and entirely his, his, his, _his_...

The question was why it had taken him so long to discover it.

_Taking_ things _in_ _one's_ _own_ _hand_... He took his member in his hand approximately ten times a day – whenever he went to the loo, whenever he washed or showered. Why had it never occurred to him to do something else as well? Nott and Zabini had discussed the topic at the age of fourteen. He was twenty now. That made six years of missed... well, what was it called? Taking-things-in-one's-own-hand was a neat enough description, but was there also a correct technical term for it? _Simulated_ _intercourse_ perhaps?

Real intercourse he had only had once. The initiative had lain with Pansy, but declining her offer had been no option. He had believed a positive response would further his reputation and his status – maybe this notion had been downright silly, but back then he had believed it nevertheless – and, _of_ _course_, there had been the lure of silken underwear and the uncharted territory beyond. To say he hadn't been curious and thrilled would be a lie. But there had also been a great deal of nervousness on his part. The actual event had been awkward, to put it mildly.

Pansy had been disappointed. She hadn't said so, but he had seen it in her posture and heard it in her tone of voice. He hadn't met her expectations. Then again, how could she have known what to expect?

He pushed the thought aside and got out of bed.

...

It was too early for breakfast so he grabbed his towel and went to the beach.

He walked briskly, but when he reached the point where the narrow path left the lane he stopped to examine the old weathered sign. For the first time, he thought in earnest about what the inscription might originally have been. He remembered the word _Cliff_, which had probably been the remnant of _Cliff_ _Sun_ _Club_. The line below had started with _Natur_, and he had concluded – without much thinking – that an _e_ was missing. Now he had learned that the missing letters had been _i-s-t_. What the word really meant he wasn't completely sure. The people in question liked to swim in puris naturalibus. So did he. Did this mean he was a naturist? Was a man's swimming habit enough to categorise him?

Maybe there had once been an explicit warning Draco mused as he continued down the path. The sign was large enough for a third line, and Jory had said that people who could read wouldn't walk to the naturists' beach by accident.

A statement like _Private_ _Grounds_ might have warned him off two years ago, whereas he doubted that he would have deemed it necessary to find out what a _Naturist_ _Enclave_ was. Yes, at times, he showed all the prudence and circumspection of a five-year-old. But for once, he was glad about his lack of caution. Thanks to it, he had found what was now his favourite bathing place. He could but hope this Mr Webster would never get his hands on it.

...

The parlour was still empty when Draco returned from his morning swim. Smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer lingered in the air. Sporadic clunks and clinks came from the kitchen.

He went to his room. He shaved and changed into clean clothes. Then he started to put his belongings into the rucksack.

He could have stayed for one or two more days, but he suddenly longed for the city. He wanted to be back in the library. He wanted to read, to study, to learn new things. The conversation with Jory had reminded him of how much he still didn't know.

When he was done packing he gathered the Fiendfyre sketches and tore them to small pieces before he disposed of them. There were also pictures of coastal landscape, but they weren't many. He hadn't had much time for sketching during the journey with the Hungarians. And on the way back, he had hurried, not dallied. He selected a few good ones and added the best of the pictures showing Gorran Penwith. The rest he tossed into the bin.

...

88. Exam Results

"Leaving?" Mr Gill asked with a glance at the rucksack when Draco came downstairs for breakfast.

"Yes, term is about to start."

Mr Gill nodded. A while later, he came to Draco's table with the bill.

In addition to the money, Draco gave the man the little stack of pictures.

"Maybe your wife would like to have these sketches," he said. "She may put them up if she likes."

"That's Gorran," Mr Gill said softly, gazing at the topmost picture.

"It is the best representation of him I could do. Depicting faces is difficult."

"But it's great! Eva will like it," Mr Gill assured him while he thumbed through the stack. "She's very fond of your paintings you know."

Fearing the conversation to become lengthy and wearisome, Draco stood, hoisted his rucksack up and said, "I'm afraid I have to go now, Mr Gill."

"I think we could put old Gorran right over there," Mr Gill went on, pointing to the wall opposite the counter. He blinked when he looked back and saw Draco standing directly before him. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I need to go, Mr Gill," Draco repeated, already retreating. "Give my compliments to your wife."

"Oh, thanks. Yes, I will. Of course, I'll do that," the man said, flustered. "Looks like you're in a hurry. Well then, have a save journey."

"Thank you," Draco said, reaching for the door handle. "And, please, tell the people of the Naturist Society they need to renew their sign. It has become unreadable."

...

He walked inland at top speed. The strong wind blowing from the south practically shoved him onwards. When he neared the ferry point and noticed the boat was about to cast off, he broke into a run. He managed to catch the boat and reached the city by early afternoon.

Mrs Bates was engaged in a phone call when he arrived at Hind Green Close. She waved at him in greeting but didn't interrupt her discourse on cancellation charges. Draco didn't mind skipping the small talk and rushed upstairs.

The letter he longed to see lay on his desk. He tore the envelope open without sitting down first. He didn't even take his rucksack off.

He glanced at the list of results and suddenly, the rucksack felt very heavy on his shoulders. He dropped it right where he stood and sat down in the easy chair.

He had failed two subjects – Chemistry and, not surprising in the least, ICT. The rest was anything but impressive.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. For Merlin's sake, these grades were nothing but _Muggle_ O.W.L.s so why did he care?

But the disappointment felt real. He had worked hard for these exams. Months of diligent studying – and what had he achieved? Cs! He had Cs in most subjects. English Literature and Social Studies were even worse, and in French and Maths where the instructors had talked him into sitting the exam for the higher tier he had Bs.

What now?

Was a C in Biology good enough to continue?

Would anything he did ever be good enough?

He had ten real O.W.L.s. Had that been good enough? No.

There had been one Acceptable. It had been in History of Magic. But despite his mother's frequent rants about the shamelessly adulterated version of history being taught at Hogwarts, getting an Acceptable in that subject had not been acceptable for a Malfoy.

His three Outstandings had met with mixed reactions. Having one in Astronomy had been duly noted. Arithmancy had gone down almost unmentioned, but the Outstanding in Herbology had earned him reproof rather than commendation. He had been told that he had wasted his time on an insignificant subject instead of investing his efforts into a nobler science like, for instance, Potions.

Back then he had blamed Griselda Marchbanks, the head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority. She hadn't favoured him as his father had assured him she would do.

Thinking back he had to admit that the Potions exam had not been his finest hour. He had already been slack in preparing for it. Lulled by Snape's practice of giving him top marks regardless of how perfect his work actually was he had spent less time on revising for Potions than for other subjects. Then Snape's last minute training had come. Draco's own brewing had gone just fine but there had also been the mess with Crabbe's potion and Snape's whispered accusation of Draco being at fault for it. Instead of using the remaining time for revising Draco had tried to find out what Crabbe had done wrong.

As a result, he had been rather on edge when the exam had started, and seeing his examiner had done nothing to calm him down. Marchbanks had already tested him in Charms and Transfiguration where she had proved to be a stickler for accuracy. His worst mistake with her, however, he had made right before the Charms exam when he had tried to give her his Father's regards. It had earned him an extremely angry remark about her not being open to bribery.

He should indeed have kept his mouth shut. She had not looked very much like the woman he had expected to see. Later – too late – he had realised that he had confused her with her grandniece, the lawyer Candida Marchbanks.

But his father had definitely said _Griselda_ Marchbanks. He had asserted that he knew her well and that she had attended dinner at Malfoy Manor more than just once. When had she been there? Draco couldn't remember. He was fairly sure he had never seen her before she had walked into the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

Why did his Father lie?

Why did Snape give him praise where praise had not been due?

He sighed. All his past was a tangle of deceptions and falsehoods. How was he to ever unravel it?

And now, when he had made a truly honest effort he had failed yet again.

Mrs Highbury had had such high hopes for him. He remembered her saying he would pass the exam in French with flying colours. But he hadn't. Understanding terms like _l'appareil_ _photo_ _numérique_ or _l'écran_ _à_ _cristaux_ _liquides_ without a dictionary was nigh on impossible for him. Even having the correct translation didn't always help him to make sense of the sentence in which those terms occurred. The letters from one hundred years ago had been easier to tackle in that respect.

In Maths, he hadn't failed because he lacked knowledge or skill. He had simply run out of time. He had known beforehand that tabulated values wouldn't be allowed, but he had been confident that he could do without them. Professor Vector had drummed the Babylonian algorithm into her students, so calculating square roots wasn't a problem for him. He had also learned the numerical values for the sine of the first quadrant by heart. From these numbers, he was able to estimate with the help of symmetries and the Pythagorean theorem whatever might be needed for trigonometry. At any rate, resorting to such calculations had seemed easier to him than fathoming out how the devices worked that looked like oversized mobile phones. But the downside of his approach was that the involved procedures were slow and time-consuming.

What was a B worth? Did it stand for Exceeds Expectations or for Acceptable? There were two better grades – A and A* – but a D was still somehow a pass grade. The two grading systems didn't really compare.

Mrs Bates interrupted his gloomy thoughts when she brought him a bowl of apples. Her welcome speech turned almost immediately into a long-winded account of her second cousins' daring but unsuccessful attempts to smuggle in bottles of strong liquor but, thankfully, the barrage was cut short by the bell ringing in the breakfast room. She excused herself and hurried downstairs.

Draco let out a slow breath. Polite behaviour was what Mrs Bates seemed to like about him, but he definitely wasn't in the mood for chitchat right now. He had better avoid her until he had calmed down.

He put the rucksack away and stuffed the report back into the envelope. Then he made haste to get out of the house while Mrs Bates was still busy with whatever emergency had occurred.

He ran to the park where he kept jogging until the sinking sun added a touch of gold to the scenery.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

to be continued

...

Author's note:

Many thanks go to TheMightyKoosh and Nooka for beta reading and advice.


	32. Part 32

89. Career Advice

He went straight to the library the next morning. Mrs Highbury was going to be disappointed, but there was no point in putting the confrontation off.

It was very early, and the rooms were empty except for the staff. That was why he was surprised to hear raised voices. Before he could make out what the argument was about, a door slammed and then there was silence.

One of the library assistants – a short, chubby woman with random streaks of artificial red in her otherwise light hair – stopped Draco on his way to Mrs Highbury's office.

"Wait, Mr Malfoy. I wouldn't go in there right now if I were you," she said in hushed tones. A bit louder, she added, "Good morning and welcome back."

"Good morning, Mrs Shaw," Draco said. "Good to see you. But what seems to be the trouble?"

"She's fuming. Jeffrey riled her up – _again_. If he continues in that manner, he'll get himself sacked one of these days."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"If you want to talk to the boss," Miss Shaw went on, eying the envelope in his hand, "come back in an hour or so. Emma never stays angry for long. Perhaps that's the trouble. She's too good for this world."

But it was already too late for a retreat because the door of the office flew open and Mrs Highbury emerged. She looked livid.

"Oh dear..." Mrs Shaw murmured.

"One request for an inter-library loan came in last Friday," Mrs Highbury said without prelude. "The other one dates back from almost three weeks ago. Try to sort this out, Helen, please. I can't deal with this mess right now; I'm expected at the vice chancellors in ten minutes."

"I'll see to it," Mrs Shaw assured her boss. "But listen to me, Emma. Give him a written warning this time. That's the only way to get him to see that you mean business. If not, the same will happen all over again. And then he'll whine and make those puppy dog eyes and you will relen-"

"I won't! I swear the next time I'll catch him idling around-"

Mrs Shaw raised her hands in a soothing gesture.

"I'm only saying that having something official on paper can be to your advantage."

"I can't dismiss him, Helen. In less than three months, Rachel will be on maternity leave. We need him."

"I doubt anyone would notice a difference. Honestly, what amount of useful work _does_ this man do?" Mrs Shaw said with a shake of her head before she hurried away.

Mrs Highbury turned to Draco, who had stepped a little to the side, feeling that if he couldn't avoid listening in to the exchange he should at least not be obvious about it.

She looked him up and down. Her gaze came to a rest on the envelope.

"Good morning, Mr Malfoy," she said, sounding calmer but still somewhat exasperated. "What brings you here? Your exam results?"

"Yes, Mrs Highbury," he answered as politely as possible. "Good morning. It's-"

"How many GCSEs did you get?" she interrupted.

"Nine. I failed two subjects – ICT and Chemistry. In English Literature and Social Studies I didn't manage more than..."

Seeing her frown, he trailed off. He even felt a pang of shame – as absurd as that was. His performance had clearly fallen short of her expectations – but so what? He didn't need a bloody grade in Chemistry or English Literature!

"Mr Malfoy, shouldn't you direct the focus on the nine subjects you passed instead of stressing that you didn't do too well in two others?"

He stared at her. This wasn't the telling-off he had expected.

"You have nine GCSEs," she continued. "A year ago, you had none. Don't you think that's an improvement?"

"I thought you'd expected more of me," he said, sounding as confused as he felt.

"_I_ _expected_... How can you tell what _I_ expect? And what _I_ expect is not the point, anyway. What matters is what _you_ expect. What do you want to do? In which area would you like to work? And if you aren't pleased with a specific result, you can always re-sit the exam." She paused, trying to compose herself. "Sorry, I'm ranting. It's not your fault, though. I had a run-in with one of my staff earlier this morning. Perhaps we should discuss your exam results another time – or perhaps right now is as good as any other time. I doubt I'll be in a much better mood after the meeting with the vice chancellor. So, I promise to try and stay calm. Where is the problem, Mr Malfoy?"

"I'm not sure," he said, taking the report sheet out of the envelope. "It's just not overly brilliant. Perhaps you should have a look for yourself."

She scanned the page – and shrugged.

"That looks good enough to me. There should be no problem with continuing Maths and French although – I have to admit that – I thought you would get an A* in French effortlessly. What was the trouble? Exam nerves?"

He didn't know how to answer. He mustn't reveal the true reason – the fact that he was an alien who didn't have the faintest clue about all that weird technology stuff – and any other excuse would only generate the need for more lies.

"Well, probably yes considering the way you take things seriously," she answered her question herself when he stayed silent. "A more relaxed approach has its benefits, too, Mr Malfoy."

With a small smile she gave him the report back.

He cleared his throat.

"Do you have some advice for me?" he asked.

"If you wish to heed a piece of advice then re-do ICT. There will hardly be a career in the future where you don't need computer skills. I'm afraid Jeffrey wasn't much help. I should never have assigned him the task of tutoring you. Perhaps you can find a private tutor among the engineering students. As for Biology – just apply for the A-level course. The worst they can do is turning you down. But I don't think they will. As far as I know, a minimum of five GCSEs at grade C or above is enough to meet requirements." She gave him another smile. "Stop worrying. Focus on what lies ahead, not on what is past."

"Thanks," he said softly.

"You're welcome. Oh, and by the way... wait, I'll just go and fetch the list."

She nipped into her office and was back a moment later with a piece of bluish paper.

"Here, I believe we had a deal, Mr Malfoy," she said, holding the paper out to him. "You kept your promise, and I kept mine and made a comprehensive compilation of worthwhile reading material for genetics. The first book is an introduction, aimed at the general public rather than at experts. You should start with that one. From there on, it gets more detailed and specific and thus more demanding. I also added a number of recent papers putting forth new findings that haven't yet found their way into the textbooks. With the Human Genome Project having gone on for a while now, there is an increase of related articles in the periodicals. But, Mr Malfoy, I must ask to be excused now; I have an appointment."

"Of course," he managed. "Thank you."

"Always my pleasure."

Draco watched her walk off. To say her reaction had surprised him would be a clear understatement.

...

90. Biology and Genetics

He applied for the A-level course in Biology.

The city clerk with whom Draco had to negotiate the matter didn't make a fuss about the low GCSE grade but about a deadline Draco apparently had missed. However, there were several vacancies in the Biology course, and the man allowed Draco to sign up belatedly. He also accepted the tuition fee in cash although he said that wasn't standard procedure.

The lessons – there were up to five per week – started invariably at half past seven in the evening and took place in a narrow, red brick building situated near the marina. It was a brief walk from the campus, even though Draco didn't opt for the shortest route. He preferred a slightly longer one to avoid the busy roundabout.

The teacher, a scraggy man in his late twenties, was very zealous. When he talked he hardly paused to breathe. In his first lesson he detailed various theories – reaching from totally fanciful to moderately plausible – about how life had come into being.

After that, the teaching turned to all sorts of creatures that were too minuscule to be visible to the naked eye. The topic wasn't exactly uninteresting because a fair number of the tiny organisms seemed to be useful in making wine or cheese, brewing beer, and baking bread whereas other ones caused highly unpleasant diseases and had to be poisoned with special substances, collectively named antibiotics.

Then there came topics with which Draco was a bit more familiar. He could tell a fern from a fungus, and he already knew how tadpoles transformed into frogs.

He attended the lessons, did his homework and perused the relevant chapters in the textbooks like a good student should. Apart from that he devoted his time to the books from Mrs Highbury's list. He didn't just read them but took meticulous notes, drew diagrams, and tried to keep up with the many complicated formulas and calculations. He immersed himself into his studies to such an extent that he did almost nothing besides eating, sleeping and learning. Even when he did his jogging rounds or walked to the Biology lessons, he thought about a passage he had read earlier that day or analysed the details of a complex chart.

...

The days became weeks and the weeks became months. It was the morning before the winter solstice when he was startled out of his routine, and that happened literally with a bang.

He was reading about the influence of co-dominant alleles on the phenotype of a heterozygous individual when, all of a sudden, a loud argument disturbed the peace of the library. He tried to tune it out but couldn't help noticing Mrs Highbury's angry voice that rose above the din.

"With immediate effect!" she shouted.

The crash that followed her words evoked the mental image of glass splintering.

Draco left his desk to find out what was going on.

A rather large crowd had gathered just outside the staff area. People were standing on tiptoes and craning their necks. Joining them, Draco caught a glimpse of glass shards lying on the floor before he was shoved aside by other spectators.

"Would you have thought such a delicate little person had it in her to smash a pane of safety glass?" somebody behind him asked in a low voice. "It's _safety_ glass. It's supposed to be unbreakable no matter how hard you slam the door."

"_She_ smashed it?" somebody else asked back in what sounded like awe.

"Yeah, she did," a third voice confirmed. "Highbury. Fancy that."

Draco spun around to find the speakers, but people were milling about. Somebody was talking about going to lunch. A girl laughed for no discernible reason.

He didn't know what to make of this. Why had Mrs Highbury broken into her own office? And why did the glass shards lie outside? If she had tried to get in by force, the glass should be inside.

He was jostled backwards when the crowd suddenly parted to make room for Jeffrey's wheelchair. Jeffrey, a stuffed plastic bag lying in his lap, rolled slowly out of the staff area. Mrs Smith and Mrs Shaw ushered him along.

"... certainly been lenient towards you. Far too lenient if you ask me," Draco heard Mrs Shaw say as he pushed closer. "She's given you more than just one second chance. So, stop whining."

"Tell her she can kiss my arse," Jeffrey spat.

Mrs Smith gasped for air; Mrs Shaw looked ready to explode.

"That's enough!" she yelled. "Leave! Just leave and begone!"

Jeffrey manoeuvred the wheelchair around and rolled to the lift without another word.

"How dare he!" Mrs Smith exclaimed. The elderly lady was still fighting for air. She was bright red in the face in a way that seemed unhealthy. "What cheek!"

"Calm down, Annie," Mrs Shaw said, putting a hand soothingly on the arm of her colleague. "You know you mustn't get worked up like that. We're rid of him, and that's good."

Draco was near enough now to address the women at normal volume.

"Mrs Smith and Mrs Shaw, I'm grieved to find you both upset," he said, resorting to a formal phrase he had once been trained to use.

"Did you need something, Mr Malfoy?" Mrs Shaw snapped angrily. "Now is definitely _not_ a good time to see the boss."

"I have no intention of troubling Mrs Highbury," he answered. "I'm afraid it was plain curiosity that brought me here. I heard the splintering of glass."

"Well, I suppose the commotion couldn't be missed," Mrs Shaw replied, giving the dispersing crowd a dark look. "Damn the git. As if the mess wasn't big enough already, he had to go and start a shouting match."

"What happened?" Draco asked. "What did Jeffrey do?"

The Mrs Shaw snorted in a rather unladylike manner.

"That's the wrong question, Mr Malfoy. You should ask: What didn't he do? Well, he's failed _for_ _months_ to send back a number of items – a couple of books and nearly a dozen journals – that we borrowed from other libraries. He stuffed them into a drawer of his desk where they got buried beneath a jumble of half-eaten chocolate bars,_ Mayfair_ magazines, stationery, and loose papers. Emma sacked him on the spot. I've never seen her that infuriated before, and I've known her for a good ten years."

"His negligence... no, his _laziness_ has damaged the reputation of all of us!" Mrs Smith exclaimed. She was still bubbling with indignation. "Just think – I phone Janet Trimble in Exeter – she's an old acquaintance of mine; we've known each other since the early sixties when I was still an apprentice – well, I phone her about an interloan request and what does she tell me? _We won't lend you anything before you've returned the journals that were due in July_. In July! Can you imagine that? I felt like a schoolgirl being told off. Oh the shame! I can't believe it!"

"Yes, that's how we found out," Mrs Shaw went on. "It appears that in all cases the patrons were exchange students who are no longer here. That's probably why nobody complained about getting a reminder even though they returned the borrowed items on time. Look, it's not as if Jeffrey wasn't aware of his responsibilities. For heaven's sake, he's a fully-fledged librarian, university degree and all! Emma doesn't have the time to always check on everyone's work, especially not on the work of people who are well qualified and experienced and... Argh, it's just so frustrating!"

"And the impertinence on top of it!" Mrs Smith added, shaking her head. "But I must ask to be excused. I've got work to do, and unlike some other people I do know my duties."

She ambled off, muttering under her breath.

"Me too," Mrs Shaw said. "Please excuse me; I have to get back to work."

With that, she went over to her workstation where she started pressing keys at amazing speed.

...

91. Contemplation

About to go as well, Draco chanced a quick look at Mrs Highbury's office. The light inside the cubicle was turned off and the light outside reflected off the wall-sized windows. Only where the door had been, he could see a part of the interior. Mrs Highbury sat at her desk, hunched, and her shoulders were quavering.

He turned away sharply.

Heat rose to his cheeks; he wished he had not looked at the woman.

But he had. The single glance had been more than enough. She was crying. Strong, poised, competent Mrs Highbury was crying.

Torn between the absurd impulse to comfort her – albeit he hadn't the faintest idea how – and the urge to run, he staggered back to his reading corner.

He glared at his notes, the open book, and the half-drawn chart.

There was no use in continuing right now; his concentration was gone. He closed the book and shoved the notes into his bag.

...

He resorted to his customary means for dealing with inner turmoil. Lap after lap, he jogged through the park, but the mental image of Mrs Highbury crying was hard to dispel. He knew all too well how it felt to fail.

Had it been in her power to make Jeffrey Oldfield less of a sluggard?

Had it been in his power to make Vincent Crabbe less of a dunce?

Maybe. There was no way of knowing.

But there were always those who would blame you nonetheless, saying you should have tried harder.

_You need to try harder _or_ you need to apply yourself more_ were words he had heard countless times – not in the beginning, but later. In the beginning he had learned that he was, due to his lineage, better than most everyone else, and that anything a Malfoy did was well done because doing things right came to them naturally. Later he had been blamed for the lack of congruence between these teachings and reality.

And right now he was faced with the same old dilemma all over again – the goal was beyond his reach. It didn't matter how hard he tried or how much he applied himself – he would _never_ understand genetics in full. The knowledge accumulated within the last hundred years was much too vast to be obtained by a single individual.

The scientists weren't even done researching, yet. Yes, Gregor Johann Mendel had merely been the first to discover that there were rules determining what properties got passed on to the next generation. Thousands of geneticists had followed in his footsteps, and today it was agreed that Mendel's findings were only a piece in a gigantic puzzle.

...

Dusk fell by mid-afternoon, and Draco went for a stroll through the pedestrian precinct. As usual at this time of the year, the area was crammed with little market stalls. These stalls as well as the regular shops were generously decorated with mistletoe and all sorts of glittering ornaments. Electric lights replaced enchanted candles and torches, but the effect was nice nonetheless. Smells of food wafted through the air.

He treated himself to a cupcake with custard topping. Leaning against the side of one of the wooden stalls, he ate. While he did he mused about the actual progress he had made studying genetics. After having read the introduction back in September, he had been confident that he would soon know everything about the subject matter. He had believed a bit of background reading should be enough to clear up the hazy points. But he had been thoroughly mistaken.

No branch of knowledge he had ever come across in the wizarding world had remotely the same complexity as genetics. Countless scientists all over the world – not only in Great Britain and on the continent but also in Japan, China, and the United States of America – were working on the project of deciphering the human genome. The deoxyribonucleic acid molecules of humans were said to consist of three billions of base pairs. A billion was a mind-boggling, ten-digit number. If you jotted down three base pairs in a space the width of an inch, you would need for a display of the entire code a scroll of parchment that went more than halfway round the earth. Draco wasn't sure whether the magnitude of the task or the level of cooperation by scientists from so many countries astonished him more.

And what could he, a lone, disgraced wizard, accomplish regarding genetics? He could perhaps catch a glimpse of the dragon's tail.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

to be continued

...

Author's note:

Many thanks for beta reading and for advice regarding library procedures go to TheMightyKoosh and Nooka.


	33. Part 33

92. Lonely Yule

Mrs Smith smiled at him and wished him a "Merry Christmas" when he checked out his reading material for the holidays.

On the whole, arrangements for Yule were similar to those of the previous year. Mrs Bates and her second cousins went to visit relations. Before she left, she presented Draco with a homemade fruitcake and a bowl filled with satsumas and assorted nuts; he gave her a small selection of spiced chocolates in turn. She didn't say much about him staying at her lodging house rather than seeing his parents, but the pity was in her tone of voice and in the expression on her face.

This time her attitude had an impact on him. He had brushed off all nostalgic feelings last year, reminding himself that he had lived through much worse Yule times. But this year, all alone in the eerily quiet lodging house, reminding himself of former Yule days led to actually remembering them.

The Yule break of 1997 he could only describe with the word horrible. He had escaped the Carrows for a while, but only to get Lestrange, Greyback, and the monster in exchange. He had thoroughly failed to make his parents understand his fears and doubts. In the end, he had almost wished he hadn't gone home at all.

He hadn't always spent Yule at home. In his second year, his father had refused to let him come home, advising him to make use of the holidays and study lest he be outdone again by a Mudblood. Two years later, his mother had insisted on him attending the Yule Ball. Another two years later, going home had been completely out of the question. There had been a Vanishing Cabinet to repair, an order to carry out, and a man to kill... He shuddered at the mere thought. Perhaps, at this point of time, he had still believed he would succeed eventually. But then he had run into Snape at Slughorn's party, and their subsequent argument had eroded Draco's already waning confidence even further.

Snape had accused him of speaking like a child.

Perhaps he had spoken like an idiot but certainly not like the child he had once been.

Yule had been so much different when he was a child. He remembered the sea of candles on the big table and the elegant decorations everywhere in the house. His grandfather had put up mistletoe. His mother, all solemn dignity, had read from _Nature's Nobility_. His father had showed him off to the guests.

Yes, there had been times when his father had been pleased with him.

Failure had never gone down well, but in the early years he had been able to straighten out his mistakes. He had learned to pronounce Abraxas properly or how and when to order the house-elves to punish themselves, and his father had been appeased.

But those times were gone, most definitely gone, and he could never have them back. He was no longer an innocent five-year-old. The manor had been taken away, his mother lived with an insufferable old bat, his father was in prison, and his grandfather was dead.

The Yule season after his grandfather's death had been the first one without mistletoe. Did this change signify something? If yes, what?

He leaned his forehead against the windowpane and scowled at the park shrouded in fog. The weather was dismal. His reading material didn't help to improve his mood, either. His Resident's Library Card limited the range of books he was allowed to check out. He had chosen some of the still unread books left on last year's list – a collection of boring French short stories and a likewise uninteresting treatise about a quadrennial sports competition called _The_ _Olympic_ _Games_.

He couldn't keep himself from thinking of his mother. How was she? He hadn't heard from her in more than a year.

Should he try to contact her? How? He had no owl, and sending her birthday greetings in an envelope adorned with a stamp showing queen Elizabeth II would be a horrible faux pas. Her reaction to a letter sent Muggle style was beside the point anyway because the post-people wouldn't find Runcorn's cottage. He would find it; he distinctly recalled the sign reading, _Beware of Leeches_. But if he visited, Runcorn might catch him. He couldn't risk that; he mustn't go near anyone who had a wand and didn't like him.

He was tempted to walk to Trethwyn instead, fog and cold be damned. Perhaps he could see Jory. Then again, feeling depressed hardly counted as an emergency.

...

The days went by at a snail's pace. He was alone with his memories, the ratio of distressing to good ones being ten to one.

He sketched mistletoe and decorated his room with the sketches. He doodled holly and ivy while he tried to piece together the ancient tale about Ivy and her two sons.

Ivy, a gifted witch, had lived approximately three thousand years ago. Her son Oakley had vanished at Halloween – Samhain in the old language – and reappeared at Yule. Holly, his brother, had been strong and had supported their mother during the time of Oakley's absence. But he, in turn, had gone missing between Beltane and Midsummer, and the task of comforting Ivy had fallen on Oakley.

According to Binns, the tradition of using mistletoe, ivy, and holly – plants that were green all year round – as Yule decorations was linked to this tale. Binns had also spoken about the year being divided into a time for growth, healing, and new beginnings and one for rest, reflection, and learning. But as much as Draco tried, he couldn't recapture the details.

He wished he had paid more attention to the ghost's teachings. Instead, he had once more made his parents' opinion his own. To his parents, history started with Salazar Slytherin. Whatever had happened before had never been of much interest to them.

Why?

...

93. The Ultimate Lie

Starting with his parents, Draco charted his family tree. Most of it he knew only as text. It was the first time he attempted to put the entire set of data into the form of a diagram – with surprising results.

There weren't sixty-four people in the generation of the great-grandparents of his great-grandparents, and there were considerably less than one hundred and twenty-eight names in the preceding generation. Part of the shrinkage was due to normal pedigree collapse that occurred whenever people married people they were related to. But the main reason was that the lines ended, and some of them were startlingly short even though he did remember every date and name his mother had made him learn by heart. While learning them, he hadn't minded that all lines eventually broke off because this had saved him from the impossible task of having to memorise an infinite amount of data.

But now he wondered.

His patriline ended nine hundred years ago. Where Guiot, father of Pavo, had come from was unclear. Cepheus the Swarthy, the earliest known ancestor in the Black line, had died in 1156. Only one single line – a small part of the ancestry of Abraxas Malfoy's second mother-in-law and, hence, one of Draco's great-grandmothers – extended actually into the first millennium. However, the further it stretched back in time the less precise became the wording. There were phrases like _born ten_ _days_ _after_ _the_ _autumnal_ _equinox_ without a year given or _Morfydd_, _daughter_ _of_ _the_ _mage_ _Renfrew_ _and_ _the_ _sorceress_ _Gwanwyn_, _was_ _a_ _contemporary_ _of_ _the_ _four_ _founders_.

The founders had lived more than a thousand years ago so maybe information was lost in the mists of time. But why did lines break off somewhere in the nineteenth century?

In many cases, Draco knew only the name of a Black or Malfoy's wife and sometimes not even that. There were statements like _Deneb Black married on January the sixth, 1817. His wife descended from a notable East Anglian family._ It said nothing more than that there had been a wife, which was somewhat obvious because Procyon Black must have had a mother. Why her family had been noteworthy wasn't explained. No name was given and no remark made about her blood status. The statement was completely pointless. It didn't even say that Deneb's wife had been a witch.

Draco drew a deep breath. Could that be?

Could that _possibly_ be?

He took a closer look. There were two nameless individuals in the suspiciously short bloodline of Druella Black nee Rosier, his mother's mother. No ancestor of Beatrice Knightley, wife of Abraxas Malfoy's grandfather Eugenius, was known. Every line that branched off from either his or his mother's patriline ended with a rather vague description of someone's wife, husband, mother, or father. Was that pure coincidence? How likely was slackness when an issue as important as blood status was concerned?

He snatched up the sheets that lay spread out on the floor, crumpled them into tiny balls, and tossed them into the waste-paper basket. It didn't help. The doubt was there. And he knew, _he_ _just_ _knew_, if he ever found a piece of evidence, it would not resolve the doubt but prove the lie.

He stood still for a moment, trying to keep the erupting anger in check. It was futile. What bubbled up within him was something akin to the irrational turmoil that Weasley used to evoke in him, something he couldn't handle – fury combined with a feeling of utter powerlessness. It made him want to yell, to lash out, to kick.

He grabbed his parka and raced down the stairs.

...

He ran much faster than usual. He didn't really believe the physical exercise was going to soothe him, but wearing himself out was all he could do to keep himself from smashing Mrs Bates's furniture to bits.

Why did _everything_ turn out a lie?

From his earliest childhood on, his parents had encouraged him to think of others as being inferior. They had told him over and over and over again about his flawless bloodline and how he was therefore destined for pre-eminence. They had made it seem a fundamental principle of life.

Could he have doubted them?

Children depended on their parents. The younger they were, the more they were at the mercy of their mothers and fathers. The parents defined the world, its outline and boundaries, its contents, its meaning and purpose. Children had no means of escape; they didn't even know that a thing called "escape" existed. If there was an "outside", it was probably hostile and dangerous and to be avoided. They had no other protection than their parents.

Why should he have doubted his parents?

Having more and better toys than everybody else, being better clad than everybody else, living in a bigger manor than everybody else, plus boasting a lineage longer and more immaculate than everybody else's had seemed proof enough.

Boasting was a fitting word indeed. He had enjoyed showing off – his flying prowess, for instance, not realising that it wasn't such a big feat to outperform Crabbe or Goyle on a broom. With arrant pride he had repeated his father's words – words like _It will be a crime if my son isn't picked to play for Slytherin house_.

Drenched in such beliefs, he had gone to Hogwarts where he was confronted with the infuriating fact that other people got picked to play for their house during the very first flying lesson of their life. He hadn't considered the possibility that said people might be more talented than he was. Instead, he had been fuming. He had vented his frustration by blaming McGonagall and Dumbledore and the rest of their bunch for their foolishness and bias and favouritism.

The rage had turned into downright hatred when his father no longer had words of praise for him. _I would have thought you'd be right ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam_. Had he been ashamed? Probably yes, but fury had usually trounced all other feelings, especially when he was humiliated in public. _I hope my son will amount to more than a thief_ – said by the man who served a sentence for burglary – _though if his school marks don't pick up that may indeed be all he is fit for_.

But his father's rapidly changing attitude towards him hadn't stopped him from parroting the man at every possible opportunity.

When should he have started to doubt his parents?

It had taken him forever to spot the catch in _You are supposed to outshine the rest of the world_. It was the word _supposed_. The realisation had made him panic. Merlin knew he had tried to live up to the doctrine. But at the utmost, he had come second best. Most times he had not even managed that. Failing and failing again had made him all the angrier. He had directed his boiling anger towards those he had considered responsible for his misery – the disgusting riff-raff that didn't belong in the wizarding world and the stupid do-gooders and blood-traitors who advocated the presence of Mudbloods and other misfits. Both his parents had encouraged this way of thinking.

Even after he had realised – much too late – the flaws in his father's concepts he had still believed his mother's teachings to be reliable.

And now he had uprooted the ugly truth. She had merely been subtler in deluding him. Obscuring undesirable facts with ambiguous phrasing was exactly the thing his mother would do.

He felt betrayed. He had been fed lies and half-truths throughout his childhood. He had never had all the facts. He didn't have all the facts now, either, but now he knew at least that he didn't have them.

It took a hundred laps until he had exhausted himself to a point where he no longer felt the urge to wreck something large and solid. He slowed to a walking pace as tears mingled on his face with the fine spray of falling fog. It was well after nightfall. He was alone in the park. He could sob as loud as he pleased.

...

He was cold and wet when he eventually walked back home. His vest and shirt were drenched in sweat, and the drizzle had soaked through the rest of his clothes.

He ran himself a bath, adding a generous shot of citrus-scented bath soap. He lounged in the warm water and enjoyed a little interlude of simulated intercourse. Then he lounged a bit more until the water started to cool off.

As he watched the water flow down the drain he wished it would take with it not only a few squirts of sperm but also the myriad of untruths.

...

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...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) Many thanks for beta reading and advice go to TheMightyKoosh and Nooka.

(2) The story of Ivy and her two sons is loosely based on the tale of the Oak King and the Holly King.  
There is no actual evidence in the books that Professor Binns ever talked about the topic. However, they are told from Harry's point of view, and there is always a good chance that he simply didn't pay attention...


	34. Part 34

94. Talent

He was back in his favourite reading corner at eight o'clock on the first morning that the library was open again after New Year's Day. Resuming his studies felt good. He still worked with diligence, but the desperate need for success was gone.

He devoted more time to the Biology course. Insects, arachnids, crustacea, monocotyledonous and dicotyledonous seed plants – the topic changed from week to week. The teacher often suggested additional studying material. If it was available in the library, Draco made sure to read it.

He also re-read the biography of Dorothy Hodgkin. She had perfected a technique called X-ray crystallography and had used it for various discoveries. Although Draco didn't grasp all the technical minutiae, he understood that X-ray crystallography was a very useful method for determining the three dimensional structure of biomolecules such as deoxyribonucleic acid. In other words, Hodgkin had provided a great tool for geneticists and other scientists to use. The prize she had been awarded for her work probably compared to an Order of Merlin, First Class.

Of course, he kept reading about genetics as well. Not being able to learn everything about the subject didn't mean that he couldn't learn anything at all.

He read, for example, papers on some recent findings of the Human Genome Project. In one of them, the authors wrote about so-called junk DNA – large portions of deoxyribonucleic acid that served no explainable purpose. Draco thought this to be very odd. Why would there be such amounts of worthless information?

A few days later he came across a paper in which the authors cautioned their fellow scientists against setting too great a store by genetic heritage. According to them, the genes of an individual provided a variety of possibilities, but which characteristics the individual actually developed depended largely on the environment. They presented the example of a butterfly whose cocoon was either green or brown depending on whether the surface to which it was fastened was smooth or rough. The authors asserted that environment influenced the growth of not only butterflies but all living beings, humans included. Their line of argument was given in a highly complicated scientific jargon, but Draco got at least the conclusion: The genes mattered, the environment mattered, and neither ultimately prevailed over the other.

That was an intriguing new perspective.

If the case was correct, then there were both inherited and acquired traits in an individual. Knowledge and beliefs as well as manners came probably under the heading of acquired qualities. The inherited ones would be a natural aptitude for a specific occupation and, perhaps, physical fitness.

What innate talents did he have?

He was good at flying. But he wasn't good enough. He had met someone who could be considered the natural born seeker and had learned – the hard way – that he couldn't compete.

He had mastered the Imperius Curse. Needless to say, nobody was going to consider casting that curse a praiseworthy achievement in the foreseeable future. But did his ability to cast that specific curse point to an inherited talent for leading people, or did it merely stem from years of experience in ordering classmates and younger students about? He was pretty sure it was the latter. He had grown up in the firm belief that he was destined for leadership, but in the end not even Crabbe and Goyle had listened to him. If he were asked now to lead any group of people, he wouldn't know what to do. Without having a guideline for his own life, how could he guide others?

So did he have any inborn talent at all – anything apart from the vexing knack for messing up?

He closed the periodical and looked at the artwork on the front page. Two men and a woman wearing white lab coats and protective helmets were climbing an apparently endless spiral staircase that resembled the deoxyribonucleic acid molecule. Each step was marked with one of the letters A, C, G, or T. The illustration reminded him of what he had done to represent Attila, Ferenc, Gyula, Károly, Zsolt, or him.

_Your_ _pictures_ _look_ _kind_ _of_ _alive_. _I_ _think_ _you've_ _got_ _talent_.

But Jory had admitted that he was no expert when it came to arts. He simply liked Draco's sketches, and Draco liked sketching. He wasn't a real artist. He had difficulties drawing faces. He'd never be able to put the breathtaking splendour of a crisp autumn morning on paper. No, _like_ _to_ _do_ wasn't the same as _being_ _talented_ _at_.

Why had he liked Herbology? Was it simply for the fact that there hadn't been the pressure to excel in the subject? Or was Herbology indeed his true talent? There was a certain irony to that notion – Herbology was, in his parents' opinion, a suitable occupation for the inferior, for Hufflepuffs and squibs.

They had made him choose Potions over Herbology, a truly unlucky decision. With Snape no longer there to discriminate against Potter and to favour Slytherin students, even Potter had got better marks than he had in their first N.E.W.T. year.

However, marks had soon become a lesser concern. Restoring the bloody Vanishing Cabinet to working order had taken up all his time, all his strength, all his skill, all his creativity. He had pulled it off eventually, but he had never benefited from it. The Cabinet that had been meant to be his escape route had only served to allow the Carrows – in more than one sense – into the castle. He had ended up sprinting across the grounds.

He had studied the hardest in his second N.E.W.T. year, trying to escape this way the unconcealed contempt of the Carrows and the secret hatred of the other teachers. It hadn't worked. Vector and Sinistra like the other long-standing teachers of Hogwarts had hardly dared to award less than an _Outstanding_ to the homework of any Slytherin student, but they had mustered the courage to make an exception for the pathetic would-be murderer and had marked his essays with _Exceeded_ _Expectations_. Maybe his work hadn't been worth more than that. Maybe people had just tried to get back at him. But such worries had quickly become petty concerns. In no time at all, his focus had been on fading into the background as far as possible because that had seemed his best chance for survival while sheer and utter terror had reigned over both Hogwarts and his home.

He sighed as he realised how far his thoughts had strayed off topic. Instead of evaluating his skills and inborn talents, he was dwelling for the umpteenth time on events that he would much rather forget.

He did have talents, didn't he? He wasn't a complete numskull, was he? Maybe he did have a fine grasp of the French language as Mrs Highbury so firmly believed. Maybe he was good at a science that was called Mathematics here and Arithmancy there. At any rate, it had been Arithmancy that had helped him – after months of toil and despair – to mend the Vanishing Cabinet. Once he had put the sequence of number-based charms back in place, the Cabinet had been working perfectly fine. He had proven to have both the patience and the mental capacity to solve intricate puzzles. But what good had it done him? He had finished the work, yes, but then he had lost all control over it. The first one to sally forth from the bloody Cabinet had been _Greyback_.

He slammed his fist down on the desk. He was _again_ back to those dreadful memories!

The noise he had made earned him reproachful glares from the people sitting nearby. They were real university students, ones who had enrolled. They were swotting up for the exams that took place at this time of the year.

Draco grabbed the periodical and went to return it to the shelf where it belonged.

...

95. Draco's Theory

_Herbology_ _will_ _ensure_ _the_ _young_ _man's_ _happiness_, _History_ _or_ _Runes_ _wouldn't_ _go_ _amiss_, _and_ _Muggle_ _Studies_ _is_ _an_ _absolute_ _must_.

The soothsayer had mentioned neither the French language and Mathematics nor Biology and Genetics. Was he, studying these subjects, on the wrong track?

Well, maybe not. They could be interpreted as branches of Muggle Studies.

Predictions needed correct interpretation. The emphasis was on the word correct. You had also to put the utmost care into phrasing your question. For example, the soothsayer had not pointed out Arithmancy as being of use. And why not? Because his mother had asked which subjects would most benefit her son's future rather than which subjects would help him survive the next two years.

Divination was more dangerous than most people realised. Having a misinterpreted prophecy could do far more damage than having no prophecy at all.

Seen in this light, it was probably not so bad that his parents had never deemed it necessary to have an all-embracing presage made for him. The only existing prophecy concerning his person was the one that dealt with the relatively harmless matter of N.E.W.T. subjects. Maybe it was just as well to have to muddle through on the basis of your own answers.

He browsed the shelf in search of a paper suited to find such answers. He skimmed through abstract after abstract until a question caught his eye: _Can_ _Genes_ _Be_ _Switched_ _On_ _a__nd_ _Off?_ It was one of the many headlines on a newsflash page. The short entry read, _Scientists_ _now_ _propose_ _that_ _the_ _so-called_ _junk_ _DNA_ _is_ _not_ _as_ _useless_ _as_ _initially_ _believed_. _Several_ _sequences_ _have_ _been_ _identified_ _that_ _may_ _have_ _a_ _regulative_ _function_ _in_ _transcription_ _and_ _translation_ _of_ _protein-coding_ _sequences_. _Further_ _research_ _is_ _necessary_ _to_ _determine_ _how_ _and_ _why_ _those_ _"switches"_ _work_ _and_ _whether_ _environmental_ _influences_ _are_ _responsible_ _for_ _their_ _activation_.

Draco slowly closed the periodical and put it back on the shelf.

If information in the human genome could be switched on and off, then maybe he had just found what he was looking for. Assuming the traits necessary to do magic were encoded in the so-called junk DNA, then in Muggles, these segments were simply switched off!

Why didn't anybody see that?

Well, the answer was simple: they couldn't. The inability to recognise magic would occur naturally if the assumption was correct – only if you were born with the relevant segments of your DNA molecules _switched_ _on_, were you able to determine their worth. If not, you'd consider them worthless junk.

There was irony to this – the people who cared were unable to solve the mystery whereas those who were able to do it didn't care. Draco doubted anyone with these special DNA parts switched on had ever looked into the matter. In the wizarding world, he had never heard the term deoxyribonucleic acid molecule or another word that possibly described the same thing. He knew of no spell that might replace X-ray crystallography.

Of course, he couldn't take his ignorance for proof. He racked his brain for clues pointing to genetic research conducted by wizarding people, but nothing came to his mind – no footnote in a book, no article in the _Daily_ _Prophet_, no remark dropped by a teacher.

The conflict of pure-bloods versus Mudbloods had been going on for centuries. If there had been genetic research that had yielded results at any point of time, one side – depending on whom those results proved right – would have used them to defeat their opponents.

Why had no witch or wizard ever delved into the subject of genetics?

Well, perhaps his parents weren't the only ones who preferred time-hallowed, yet unproven beliefs learned by heart to inconvenient questions starting with how or why. Thinking of it now, it occurred to Draco that nobody – neither his parents nor his teachers nor anyone else – had ever said a single word about why magic existed or how it actually worked.

How did it work? How did the relevant segments of the DNA molecule get switched on?

This was probably where _environmental_ _influence_ came into play. He had read in several books that the exposure to chemical substances or radioactivity could cause parts of the DNA molecule to change in unpredictable ways.

Did the exposure to magic cause changes as well? If yes, it could be the very thing that triggered the genes responsible for magic. In wizarding households, many common spells were used on a daily basis. So, an unborn child would inevitably come into contact with magic as long as at least one parent was capable of wielding a wand.

But what about the cases in which both parents were Muggles? The pregnant woman would have to encounter some form of magic. Where and how would that happen? Magic places were usually shielded, and if somebody spotted something he or she was not supposed to see, the Ministry would send out trouble shooters who Oblivi-

He let out a small gasp as realisation hit him. Was the solution indeed _that_ simple?

Zsolt, Károly, Gyula, Ferenc, and Attila had run downhill at breakneck speed to get away from a building they probably hadn't even been able to see. How would the baby be affected if a pregnant woman walked accidentally into a Muggle Repelling Charm? Was one _Repello_ _Muggeltum_ perhaps all it took to wake the dormant portions of the DNA molecules?

If yes, it would also explain the randomness with which witches and wizards were born to non-magical parents. Muggle Repelling Charms were placed on wizarding facilities all over the country – anyone could come across them. The old families with their obsession to seclude themselves put up strong and wide-ranging magical wards around their dwellings. This way, they provided ample opportunity for Muggles to be hit by magic.

Here was irony again – the habits of the traditionalists were the very reason for the existence of Mudbloods. Unbeknownst to themselves, the old families _generated_ what they loathed so much. Hermione Granger being born a witch had been a chance happening – a chance happening that very well might have been due to a pregnant and thoroughly unsuspecting Mrs Granger coming too close to the magical safeguards of Malfoy Manor. Draco couldn't hold back the mirthless laughter.

Somebody nearby made a shushing noise.

Draco looked up. A man well in his fifties frowned at him.

He gave a minuscule shrug by way of apology and retreated a bit; the man shook his head in disapproval and resumed his search.

Draco gave him a sidelong look. Thick, nearly-white hair, reading glasses, a dark grey suit that seemed neither overly expensive nor shabby – Draco was pretty sure he had seen this man before. He probably was one of the university professors.

Instead of an educated Muggle, the man could have been a wizard if his mother had encountered some magic while pregnant. Given that everybody's genes carried the necessary information, everybody here in this library – or anywhere else – could have been turned into a witch or wizard.

Wasn't this an exceedingly bizarre idea?

Then again, the truth might be weird and wonderful. Lies were successful because they were convenient.

...

On the way back to his reading corner, Draco walked past Mrs Smith, who was pushing a heavily laden book trolley. She looked pained and didn't answer his greeting.

As he was still preoccupied with thoughts about the latent magic potential sleeping in every man and woman throughout the country, it took him a moment to find her behaviour odd.

He looked back over his shoulder and was met with a strange sight – the trolley continued down the aisle whereas Mrs Smith's feet remained firmly in place. He saw how she had her hands on the trolley, and how it pulled her along, causing her to slant forward in a dangerous angle. In less than a second, the damn thing was completely out of control. Mrs Smith let go of it and fell, and Draco ran to catch her.

He was too slow. By the time he reached her, she was lying face down on the floor. The trolley had crashed into the nearest shelf and toppled over.

...

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Author's notes:

(1) Many thanks for beta reading and advice go to TheMightyKoosh and Nooka.

(2) The British chemist Dorothy Mary Hodgkin is credited with the development of protein crystallography. The honours she received for her scientific work include the Nobel Prize in chemistry in 1964.


	35. Part 35

96. Fault

Later, Draco couldn't say whether he had only yelled at Mrs Smith to wake up or whether he had screamed for help as well. He only remembered the surge of panic upon realising she had no pulse.

He was nudged aside almost instantly.

"Let me handle that. I used to work as a lifeguard in my youth," a man said – the same one who, only minutes ago, had frowned at him for laughing.

Draco moved out of the way; he knew he couldn't help. The white-haired man he presumed to be a professor knelt down beside Mrs Smith. A much younger man was already unbuttoning her jacket. A girl talked urgently on her mobile phone. Two other girls said they would await the paramedics at the entrance and hurried off.

Draco stared at the men. There had been a chapter about first aid and life-saving methods in a book on health care he had read a year ago. He had studied the illustrations and perused the instructions for _mouth-to-mouth_ _resuscitation_ and _cardiac_ _massage_, and the whole thing had struck him as rather crude. Now, seeing it carried out, he was shocked. Cardiac massage was downright brutal! He hoped nonetheless with all his heart that it was going to work. The last thing he needed was the image of another dead body lying on the floor.

Unable to stand the sight any longer, he turned away. He hauled the trolley upright and busied himself with collecting the strewn books and stacking them back on.

Maybe a skilled healer could fix the problem with a swish of the wand. Why were people who were able to wield a wand outnumbered ten thousand to one by people who had to live without magic? Because the mothers of the latter had failed to walk into a _Repello Muggletum_ while pregnant?

Perhaps the exposure to magic should be organised for every woman who was expecting. Guided tours to the unplottable house on the hill were a possibility. No, that would be too laborious. Sitting on a bench in the pedestrian precinct and casting a Cheering Charm on every pregnant woman who happened to walk by would be a much more efficient approach. Too bad he had no wand.

Then again, his theory about the origin of Muggleborns was just that – a theory. Experience had taught him that jumping to conclusions was never a wise thing to do, and jumping into action certainly was worse. But he could indulge in a fantasy, couldn't he? He could dream about moving from city to city and dishing out Cheering Charms – the women wouldn't suffer; they'd just feel extraordinarily happy for one afternoon. Every year of industrious work would result in more than three thousand – an average of ten Cheering Charms per day should be feasible – Muggleborn witches and wizards. He'd like to see McGoggleall deal with _that_! Muggleborns by the thousand overrunning Hogwarts – wasn't that scenario even more impressive than that of a mere dozen little white-blond Malfoy children? The grounds filled with tents to accommodate the mass of students, the Great Hall crammed with people fighting over food – and the punch line was that neither McGonagall nor the Minister and his underlings would have the faintest clue as to what was going on.

The arrival of the paramedics brought him back to reality. With them came somebody Draco had met before: Doctor Polkinghorne. The physician examined Mrs Smith, and the men clad in green and yellow overalls carried out his orders. Swiftly but with great care, they attached all sorts of equipment to the still unconscious woman and stuck needles into her arm. A long thin, translucent tube was used to administer a liquid that was in all probability this world's equivalent to a potion.

It didn't take long before Mrs Smith was carried off on a stretcher. Doctor Polkinghorne talked for a moment to the men who had rendered first aid to her, then he and the younger of the two hurried after the paramedics.

The few onlookers who had watched from a respectful distance left as well. The man in the grey suit dusted off his trousers. Without Doctor Polkinghorne's succinct orders and the clatter of medical equipment the soft murmur of the air conditioning seemed all at once a loud and prominent noise.

Draco decided to quit studying for the day and to go jogging instead. He needed a break. There was the newly established theory to mull over and, of course, he had to get the picture of Mrs Smith receiving cardiac massage off his mind.

He collected the last few books from the floor. When he looked up, he saw that the man in the grey suit was about to go. He also saw Mrs Highbury running towards them.

"Professor Ballantyne!" she exclaimed. "What happened? I hear Annie had an accident?"

"I'm afraid she suffered a coronary," the man answered gravely. "The doctor said so."

"Oh my goodness..." Mrs Highbury breathed. She clapped her hands to her face in dismay and confusion. "How... how is she?"

"Luckily, one of the medical students happened to be around when she collapsed. And the emergency doctor said there was hope. Right now, she is being taken to Royal District Hospital. I think it is your duty to inform her family," Professor Ballantyne said, nodding at her and at Mrs Shaw, who had trailed in after Mrs Highbury. "If you will please excuse me, ladies. I have a class to teach."

"Yes, of course," Mrs Highbury said, distractedly. "Oh my goodness, Annie... a heart attack!"

Mrs Shaw looked horrified.

"What was she even doing here?" Mrs Highbury suddenly burst out. "It's her day off today!"

"I... I phoned her," Mrs Shaw squeaked. She was close to tears.

"You did what? Why? What were you thinking?"

Mrs Shaw positively shivered. Tears threatened to spill.

"What else should I have done?" she all but sobbed. "Both Cora and Amrita called in sick. Then Maureen called and said she'd had an accident with the car and she couldn't come in. That's why I phoned Annie, and she said yes. How should I have known something so terrible would happen?"

"Calm d-" Mrs Highbury started to say, but Mrs Shaw didn't listen.

"The books don't climb onto the shelves by themselves!" she cried, turning to the trolley with the haphazardly piled up books. "All trolleys are chock-full. And now look at that mess here! Now – to top it all off! – I'll have to sort through them again!"

Mrs Highbury pried her away from the trolley and gave her a half-hearted hug.

"Calm down, Helen! Just calm down," she said, not very calm herself. "I'll try to get a couple of part-timers for today and t-"

"No, you can't!" Mrs Shaw cried hysterically. "All our part-timers have exams! Everybody's got exams! What do I tell them? Sorry, I don't know where the book you're looking for is? Come back next week when your exams are over and-"

"Calm down, Helen! Just calm down," Mrs Highbury repeated, now close to panic as well. "I might have done the same thing."

"But you didn't! It was _me_!"

"Stop that!" Draco cut in, rather more loudly than intended.

Both women turned to gape at him.

...

97. On Blame and Guilt

He felt his face go hot.

Mrs Highbury kept staring at him, looking distraught. Mrs Shaw was sobbing openly now.

The display of anguish got to him. Mrs Shaw had to stop crying, or he'd be in rapidly growing danger to join her. He had to say something – something that brought back at least the semblance of normality.

However, the only words that came to his mind were the ones Mrs Smith herself had said when she had attempted to console him on the first anniversary of Crabbe's death. _Sometimes we're blaming ourselves for what cannot possibly be our fault, for all the things out there on which we have no influence._

But this was only partly right. People did have influence on the course of events. They could decide – they could do something, or they could leave it be. What they didn't know was the outcome of that decision.

He might have had a chance to save Crabbe if he had put him and Goyle under the Imperius Curse upon entering the Room of Requirement. The few seconds while they'd had their backs to him would have been enough. He could have made them walk away, and Crabbe might have survived. He _might have_ _survived_. But he could have died in a different scenario as well. They could have been attacked on their way to a hidey-hole. They could have been crushed by a collapsing ceiling. There were a thousand ways how one, or two, or all three of them could have died that night.

Mrs Highbury still stared at him. Mrs Shaw sniffed loudly.

He cleared his throat.

"You cannot undo what has been done," he said, his voice embarrassingly thick with emotion. "And you cannot know what _might have been_ if you had taken another course of action. Mrs Smith might have been fine, but it is also possible that she would have had the heart attack anyway."

Mrs Highbury gave Draco a look full of both gratitude and astonishment. Then she pulled the other woman in to a hug and said, "He's right you know."

"You think?" Mrs Shaw asked in a small voice.

"I do. And Mr Malfoy does too."

"But Annie," Mrs Shaw said. "It's all my fault."

"You don't know that," Mrs Highbury sighed. "If she hadn't been here... she could have collapsed in her own kitchen, preparing lunch, and nobody would have found her for hours. Mr Smith is working for a parcel service; he often comes home late."

Draco fought the urge to run. He wanted to be away from Mrs Shaw's woes and Mrs Highbury's helplessness. He wanted to be jogging. Jogging had become, over the years, a handy remedy for internal uproar, and right now he needed it very much.

He grabbed the book trolley with both hands to keep himself from fleeing the scene like the bloody coward he was. In former times he would have done exactly that. He would have said something scathing that showed people how inappropriate their behaviour was, and then he would have stalked out of the room, leaving them to their misery.

He had done that, and often.

He had grown up in an environment where craving emotional comfort was considered a sign of weakness. Offering words of consolation was seen as silly conduct unless they were purely a formality. Help wasn't given away; it had to be negotiated.

Anything heartfelt and genuine had been banned, anything save hatred and spite. Or had hatred and spite been an act as well? Most of the time, he had hated the people who had made his life difficult. Sometimes he had delivered the lines that were expected of him, feeling nothing. That hadn't happened often, but happened it had.

Mrs Shaw was still crying. Mrs Highbury gave Draco a pleading look.

Draco shook his head.

"I don't know any better than you do how to handle the situation," he said quietly.

"Perhaps we should focus on practical matters," Mrs Highbury replied.

Draco nodded. Focussing on practical matters came right next to jogging.

"I take it you are short of personnel," he said tentatively.

"That's a bold understatement," Mrs Highbury said, patting Mrs Shaw lightly on the back. "Half of the service staff seems to be down with flu, our part-timers have to sit exams this week, and now things just got worse. We are on the brink of having to close temporarily."

"Would it... will it help if I put the books back where they belong?" Draco asked, indicating the trolley with an inclination of his head. He still held fast onto it as if it were an anchor that enabled him to stay in place. Perhaps it was.

"Oh yes, I would be most grateful. Please do it, Mr Malfoy, if you can spare the time."

"Consider it done," Draco said with a curt nod.

"Unfortunately, this trolley here isn't the only one. If it doesn't interfere with your lessons, would you be so kind as to help with the others as well?" She gave him another beseeching look.

"I don't have any lessons today."

"All right, then," Mrs Highbury said, allowing herself a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr Malfoy. Payment will be as-"

"I know you mean well, Emma," Mrs Shaw suddenly choked out. "But it's no use! He doesn't know _how_. I'll have to instruct him first, and that will take me just as long as-"

"Don't worry, Helen," Mrs Highbury interrupted the outburst. "Mr Malfoy has done this before. He'll manage."

"Oh."

"Yes. And here is what you'll do now," Mrs Highbury continued. She put her arm gently around the other woman's shoulders and led her away. "You'll smarten yourself up a bit and then you'll go back to the check-out. I'm afraid there's already a queue, and people are getting impatient."

Draco watched them retreat. He leaned onto the trolley and tried to calm down.

...

He couldn't run now that he had promised to help. Besides, jogging wasn't a remedy, but a sedative. It cured nothing; it just dulled the pain.

So, he gritted his teeth and worked. After about two hours he had only five items left. They were maps, and he hadn't seen maps anywhere in the library so far. He decided to admit to his lack of knowledge and give them back to Mrs Highbury or Mrs Shaw.

He had to bring back the trolley as well. The question was how. He had never endeavoured to use the lift, but the trolley – although empty now – was too unwieldy to be carried down the stairs.

He saw two options. He could embarrass himself by confessing that he didn't know how to operate a lift, or he could at least have a look at the thing and try to figure out how it worked.

The sliding doors of the little cubicle stood open when Draco got there. He pushed the trolley inside and looked around for a command input unit. So far, he hadn't come across a piece of Muggle technology that responded to verbal demands. You had to push buttons, preferably in correct order.

Sure enough, there was a panel bearing buttons set into the wall. The button marked with a red "2" was lit. Maybe the numbers on the buttons were floor numbers and the light indicated the current position. Draco took a deep breath and touched the button marked "1".

The doors closed with a whizzing noise. The lift glided downwards, and when its doors opened again, Draco was exactly where he wanted to be.

Why couldn't things always be this easy?

Carefully, he manoeuvred the trolley out of the cubicle.

Mrs Shaw, despite the formidable queue at the checkout counter, hurried over to him the very instant she spotted him.

"Oh, it's so nice of you to help, Mr Malfoy! I can't tell you how grateful I am. Emma, too. She can't run the place alone. I... oh well, there's that, too." She reached for the maps, distracted from what she had intended to say. "I'm afraid Annie had the key for the map room about her when she was taken to hospital. I'll tell Emma. She's got a master key. Anyway, Mr Malfoy, will you please clear this trolley here next?"

She pointed to one that was piled high with an extra amount of books. Several more books were stacked on the floor next to it.

Draco nodded.

"Thanks. That's so nice of you," she said again. "The books belong all here on the first floor. You can tell by the labels. Look, it's all engineering stuff. Now please excuse me. Patrons are waiting."

...

Draco cleared two more trolleys until the staff for the late shift arrived.

He had dinner somewhat belatedly. Afterwards, he went jogging. He wasn't going to deny himself his daily dose of painkiller.

...

98. Portraits

When Draco came to the library the next morning, Mrs Shaw was still alone at the checkout, and Mrs Highbury looked as harassed as the previous day. So, he cleared trolleys again.

He helped shelving books the following days as well because the situation remained more or less the same for almost a week. Those who had been ill with minor diseases returned one by one, but a certain shortage of staff persisted. Maureen Kentridge had been more seriously injured in the traffic accident than initially believed and would be absent for a long time. Mrs Smith wouldn't be back soon, either. Mrs Highbury and Mrs Shaw, after they had visited her in hospital, said that she would have to undergo surgery and that it would take months before she'd be able to work again. Mrs Levine was on maternity leave, two part-time workers whose task it had been to shelve books had quit their jobs for reasons unknown to Draco, and Jeffrey's position was also still vacant.

Draco didn't mind helping out. Shelving books was a task he could master. If he was unsure where to place a particular book and asked for instructions, any staff member would answer his questions without reproach or ridicule. They were friendly even when they were busy. Mrs Shaw, in particular, didn't let him swap an empty trolley for a filled one without relaying a snippet of information to him or giving a quick explanation of some standard library procedure. She also showed him around. He got to see the map room and the rooms for storing _audiotapes_ and _videotapes_. According to Mrs Shaw, _tapes_ were going out of fashion and had to be replaced by _discs_.

...

To Draco's immense dismay, something else was going out of fashion as well – the twenty-pound notes with the physicist and inventor Michael Faraday on the backside. Placards proclaiming the impending withdrawal were up in the shops in the pedestrian precinct, and not a few shop assistants insisted on bills being paid with the newer type of banknotes that featured one Sir Edward Elgar on the reverse.

He didn't like the prospect of having to go from post office to post office again, changing money. He'd hardly find offices that he hadn't already used either here in the city or along the Coast Path. He'd have to venture into other, unexplored regions or go to offices for a second time. Both options weren't without risk.

For the time being, the stacks of outdated money could stay hidden under the thick layer of old plastic bags at the bottom of his wardrobe. He had enough Sir-Edward-banknotes to cover his expenses for about three months, perhaps four if he was very careful with his spending. But eventually, the need would arise to convert more than a thousand banknotes that he had already converted one or two years ago. Aside from that, there were also still a great many original banknotes showing the playwright Shakespeare.

If Grandfather had indeed been a seer and had known beforehand what would befall the family thirteen years after his death, why hadn't he foreseen that British banknotes were regularly replaced with new editions?

While Draco pushed book-laden trolleys along the aisles, he tried to recall his grandfather's gaunt face. Two things stood out in his memory. One was the completely bald head that the old man had often covered with a flat cap made of tweed even though wearing such headgear was deemed an unusual choice by traditionalists. His other main memory was that of the thick, almost rectangular eyeglasses. Thanks to them, Grandfather's brown eyes had always seemed overlarge to him.

Yes, his grandfather's eyes had been brown. He was sure of that. His paternal grandmother he knew only from photographs and, of course, from the life-size painting in his father's study. In all these pictures, her eyes were a watery blue.

He paused, a stack of engineering textbooks in his hands, and mused about the likeliness of a brown-eyed father and a blue-eyed mother having a grey-eyed child. The probability was twenty-five percent provided that, _one_, the trait was recessive, _two_, both parents were carriers and, _three_, only one gene was involved. The many different existing eye colours called for an involvement of more than just one gene. This lowered the probability, but it was still possible.

He himself having grey eyes meant that his mother had to carry the trait as well. Did he have any grey-eyed ancestors other than his father, or had the trait been passed down through many generations without manifesting itself?

He shook his head at how little he actually knew about his family and continued shelving.

The manor had been brimming with portraits, most of them centuries old. The pale ancient people in them had watched him whenever he had walked down a hall. They had watched in silence, brows knitted together in a frown or with looks of barely concealed disapproval on their faces. Save for the one of his father's mother, who'd had the habit of reminding him of the expectations he was to live up to, none of the portraits had ever talked to him.

Truth be told, Draco had always found them creepy. He had never checked the gallery of ancestral portraits for completeness. But he was fairly sure he had never come across a portrait of any of his great-grandparents, and he was certain that there hadn't been a single picture – neither photograph nor painting – of Abraxas Malfoy anywhere at the manor. Wasn't that a bit odd?

Whenever he had asked questions about his grandfather, he had got curt or evasive answers. His mother had called her father-in-law a _crazy_ _old_ _fool_. She had talked about 'antics' and a habit of sneaking away. _Abraxas_ _is_ _ancestry_ _you_ _could_ _do_ _very_ _well_ _without_.

Why? What had the man done to deserve that much contempt?

...

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...

Author's note:

Dear readers, thank you for the many friendly and encouraging reviews you've submitted since I started this story three years ago. :)

James suspects in his review that my posting schedule may be dictated by real life. Well, he's right. Writing fan fiction is a hobby, and I'll only be able to write if and when I have time to spare. I won't abandon "Exile", but it may take me another year or even more to finish the story. I know having to wait for updates is annoying, but I can only ask you to be patient.


	36. Part 36

99. Thin Ice

"Mr Malfoy, I'm sure you've already wondered why you don't get paid for all the good work you do here," Mrs Shaw said to him one morning. "The point is that I seem to be unable to find your NI number or your bank account number. I know you've worked here before, but I can't find the contract. I don't want to bother Emma with this right now; she's got enough on her plate already. So if you could please help me with your National Insurance Number and that of your bank account?"

Draco nodded.

Maybe here was finally his chance to learn what a National Insurance Number was good for. The little card on which the code was printed had lain on the bookshelf next to his bed for almost a year. Confidently, he rattled off the sequence of letters and numerals.

"Well done," Mrs Shaw chuckled. "And do you know the number of your bank account by heart as well?"

"I'm afraid I cannot help you with that one," he said, trying to hide his bewilderment. What had he said that made her laugh? "I don't know about having a bank account."

"You have no bank account?" Mrs Shaw asked. The grin faded from her face.

"No, not that I am aware of."

"How can you not have a bank account?" Now Mrs Shaw seemed to be the one who was bewildered. "I thought you had worked for us before. Or was translating the French letters an assignment for Professor Monroe?"

"No, I worked for Mrs Highbury."

"So how did she pay you?"

"She gave me an envelope containing money at the end of each week."

"That's just..." Mrs Shaw paused, shaking her head. "Well, Emma might go and do something like that, but honestly... And that was fine by you?"

He had the impression that she expected him to say no, but he couldn't see why.

"I have to admit that the conversation we are having is a little bit beyond me," he said cautiously.

"Indeed?" For some inexplicable reason, her amused grin was back. "No offence, Mr Malfoy, but sometimes I can't help thinking you are not of this world. Seems you and Emma are a match made in heaven."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," she said, sobering up quickly. "Look, here is what you do, Mr Malfoy. The bank assistants will want to see proof of identity – a Birth Certificate for example – and something official with your current address on it. You'll take these two things and go to a bank of your choice and have them create an account for you. Then you'll come back to tell me the number of that account, and I'll take care that your wage gets transferred. Okay?"

He nodded, sensing that she would insist on things being done her way.

"May I ask you a question, Ma'am?"

"Sure, and stop calling me Ma'am. I'm Helen, or Mrs Shaw if you feel too uncomfortable addressing a forty-plus woman with her first name."

"Mrs Shaw," he said, trying to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. "I got the impression that you do not approve of the arrangement Mrs Highbury and I formerly had. What was wrong with it?"

"I didn't say Emma did anything wrong. It's probably just another symptom of her idealistic streak. I suppose whatever she and you agreed on was strictly between the two of you, and the library as an institution had nothing to do with it, which would certainly explain why I didn't find anything relating to you – no NI number, no bank account, and not even a contract. Library employees, whether they are temporary or permanent ones, aren't paid in cash. That's the regulation, and it's not negotiable."

"I see," he said although he wasn't sure he did.

"Now be a good boy and get yourself a bank account," Mrs Shaw said. Turning to leave, she added, "And I'll have a word with Emma. I know she'd love to make the world a better place single-handedly, but somebody has to remind her from time to time that this isn't achieved by paying a student out of her own purse."

...

100. A Wasted Day

His Birth Certificate tucked safely into the inside pocket of his parka, Draco strolled around and tried to decide which branch office of which bank he should use. He'd been to all of them.

Then again, how likely was it for the clerks to remember a customer who had changed money more than two years ago? Did it matter at all? He shopped frequently for stationery and toiletries in the pedestrian precinct. The shop owners or their employees recognised him, and there was no harm in it.

So, did caution slow him down? Or was he just looking for excuses?

Part of the problem was, like so very often, his ignorance of the customs outside the wizarding world. An account was, as far as he understood the matter, a detailed record about money gained and money spent. The Goblins at Gringotts kept such records. If you sent them a written order to transfer a certain amount of gold from your vault to somebody else's, they'd do that and add notes about the relocation to both the record belonging to your vault and the one belonging to the recipient's vault. He supposed Mrs Shaw had such or a similar procedure in mind when she had said she wanted his wage to be transferred. But where should the money be stored? Didn't he need a vault for that purpose?

He should have asked her for more detailed instructions right away. She might simply have given him the necessary explanations without wondering why he didn't know about something that was probably standard practice to her and her kind. If he went back to ask now, she'd think he was making fun of her.

He glared at the imposing building in front of him. He had already stood here twice today – around ten in the morning and about half an hour ago. Twice he had walked away in search of new branch offices that had miraculously popped up overnight. It was mid-afternoon now, he was cold, he was hungry, and the whole affair was becoming ridiculous.

What was the worst that could happen? Thanks to his lack of knowledge concerning the task ahead, he was likely to make a fool of himself. The clerks might have a good laugh at his expense, but they couldn't take out wands and start hexing him.

He took another moment to steel himself. Then he stepped through the heavy swing doors into the pillared, marble-tiled counter hall and walked straight up to the first clerk he spotted.

"Good afternoon, sir. My name is Draco Malfoy. I was told this morning to have you create a bank account for me so my wage can be transferred," he said. His unease came back as he watched the bored look on the clerk's face change to scrutiny. "I hope I delivered the message correctly," he continued nonetheless and put his Birth Certificate and his Resident's Library Card onto the counter. "Here is proof of my identity and an official document showing my address."

"This, young man," said the clerk and flipped the library card across the polished mahogany of the countertop, "is a piece of cardboard. As proof of address we would require something a little more trustworthy like, for example, an insurance policy or driving licence."

Draco felt nonplussed. He was sure he didn't have either of the two things the man wanted to see. He also couldn't think of a reply that wouldn't give away the scope of his ignorance.

The clerk gave the Birth Certificate a miniature push into Draco's direction.

"Feel free to come back with appropriate documents," he drawled. "Good Afternoon, Mr Malfoy."

The git simply left Draco standing at the counter and withdrew to a desk in the background where he sat down and started shuffling papers around.

Disconcerted, Draco watched the feeble attempt at appearing to be busy.

He took his Birth Certificate and the library card and slid them back into the inner pocket of his parka. He had been apprehensive about the encounter, but being snubbed like this had not been on his list of things to dread.

...

Back in the street, he took several deep breaths of wintry air.

He knew he was weak; he had accepted that truth about him years ago. Yet, it was still shocking to see how little it took to shatter his composure. Some random clerk's snotty behaviour was enough to make him painfully aware of the many occasions when he had suffered humiliation in the past and, almost equally embarrassing, when he had abased others.

Struggling to regain his self-control, he walked briskly down the street. Right now wasn't the best moment to get overwhelmed by shame or guilt. Dusk would fall soon, and he wasn't any closer to completing his task than he had been in the morning.

What should be his next step?

Should he try and go to another branch office or should he go back to the library? He had a valid excuse now to do the latter. He could approach Mrs Shaw with the question why a library card with his address on it wasn't sufficient proof thereof.

Did he have any other items that showed his current address?

In fact, he did! His address was printed on the report sheet from the examination board. The clerk hadn't mentioned GCSE report sheets as being more trustworthy than a library card issued by the head of the library of the university, but maybe it was worth a try.

He changed direction and headed home.

...

101. The Intercessor

Mrs Bates was mopping the floor of the entrance hall when Draco came in.

"Mr Malfoy!" she exclaimed, giving his boots a sharp look. "You're here early. What's the matter?"

Remaining at the threshold so he didn't have to step onto the wet floorboards, he told her about Mrs Shaw's request and the bank clerk's unwillingness to comply with it. While he talked, an idea struck him, and he ended with a plea, "May I ask for a letter that I can take to the bank office, Mrs Bates? Who, if not my landlady, should be able to confirm where I live?"

She was silent for almost a minute. Water dripped down from the cloth in her hand and formed a puddle on the floor.

"Well, I suppose I could write out something," she said at length. "Did they say they wanted to see the actual licence agreement?"

"I'm not sure." The clerk had used word the licence, but it had been part of a different term. "The man I talked to wasn't particularly helpful."

"Tell me about it. Clerks putting on airs can be a royal pain," she sighed. "What bank have you been to?

"I was to the one in the Victoria Building."

"You went there?" Mrs Bates asked, taken aback. "Why?"

"For no specific reason. I chose a bank house at random."

Mrs Bates shook her head, muttering something about having to arrive in a _Silver_ _Seraph_ in order to be accepted at such a posh place. She dropped the cloth into the basket at her feet and said, "You know what? If it's all the same to you where you open your account, you can come with me to the local office over in Queens Street. I'll have to go there anyway because of a little issue with the electricity bill. I meant to go tomorrow, but maybe I shouldn't put it off. Yes, I think I had better go now. You can come along if you like, Mr Malfoy."

"Does this mean you will tell the clerks in person that I live at your lodging house?"

"I know them, most of them anyway, and they know me. There shouldn't be much trouble," Mrs Bates said, peeling off the pair of yellow gloves she wore "I need to change, though. Just wait a sec. I'll be ready in a jiffy."

...

The bank office to which Mrs Bates went was situated no more than two hundred yards east of the point where Hind Green Close joined Queens Street. En route there, the woman kept complaining about a so-called electricity supplier. Draco tried to follow her tirade, but the number of unfamiliar expressions in it made that difficult.

She fell silent when they entered the counter hall. It was as large as the one that Draco had been in an hour earlier, but not nearly as handsome. The whole place was littered with advertising placards and racks crammed with brochures. A dull bluish carpet stretched from side to side, and the furnishings had been chosen for purpose rather than style.

Mrs Bates made a beeline for one of the clerks. He was approximately her age, balding, and wore rimless glasses.

"Angela, my dear, nice to see you," the man greeted her. "I hope you're well?"

"Hello Howard. Thanks, I'm fine. And you?"

"Fine, too. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your presence?"

"I'm afraid it's only business. There seems to be some trouble with my electricity bill," Mrs Bates said and launched straight off into another wordy complaint about the electricity supplier.

The man named Howard listened patiently. After a while, he managed to insert brief questions, and Mrs Bates calmed down. She took various papers out of her handbag, and she and the man began discussing them.

Draco stood around and waited. Time trickled by. People walked in and out. They came to talk to other clerks or to use one of the three identical devices set into the far wall. _CASH_ _MACHINES_ it read in shiny capital letters above them. Draco ventured a little closer and watched people putting flat, rectangular pieces of plastic into the machines. Then they pressed buttons – what else had he expected? – whereupon the machines emitted stacks of banknotes. Rather intrigued, Draco edged nearer and nearer until a woman snapped at him to sod off and respect her privacy.

Embarrassed, he went back to where Mrs Bates and the clerk were just coming to a conclusion.

"I'm sorry you had to wait that long, Mr Malfoy," Mrs Bates said as soon as he appeared by her side. "Please meet Mr White. – Howard, the young man here is Mr Malfoy. He's been a lodger for two and a half years."

"Good afternoon, Mr White," Draco said. "How do you do?"

"Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy," Mr White replied affably. "So our formidable Mrs Bates has let you stay for two and a half years? That's impressive. You know, there are rumours about people having been kicked out within twenty-four hours of moving in."

"That foolish boy smoked pot! I can't have that in my house. What should the neighbours think of me if word got around about such goings-on?" Mrs Bates explained to Draco before she continued explaining about him, "Mr Malfoy has taken up a part-time job lately, and now he needs an account because nobody is willing to pay their workers in cash these days. Would you please see to it, Howard?"

"Of course, my dear," said Mr White to Mrs Bates, who nodded and moved a little aside with an untidy stack of papers in her hands.

Mr White was indeed very obliging. He even helped Draco fill in the forms. All in all, things went more smoothly than Draco could have hoped until the man asked Draco's phone number.

"I'm afraid I'm unable to provide one, sir," Draco said quietly. "I wasn't told that a phone number is necessary to get a bank account."

"I don't think Mr Malfoy could afford a mobile," Mrs Bates suddenly joined in the conversation. "He's a student, and his parents don't do much to support him."

"I see," Mr White said. "Although mobile phones aren't all that expensive anymore. I've seen one for forty-nine pounds at Tesco's the other week."

"You can get a mobile for five tenners now?" Mrs Bates seemed amazed. "But I'm afraid that's still a lot of money for a student."

"Yes, I suppose," Mr White agreed with her before he turned back to Draco and asked, "Maybe you could give me the number of your workplace?"

"Why don't you just use mine, Howard?" Mrs Bates cut in again. "Wouldn't that be the easiest thing to do? I'd gladly take a message should Mr Malfoy not be in."

"Well, that's fine by me, Angela," Mr White said and asked Draco, "Any objections, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco said he had no objections and, really thankful for the offer that cleared another obstacle away, he added to Mrs Bates, "This is very kind of you. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"It's nothing, dear, don't mention it," she said while she put the now neatly arranged papers into her handbag. "Well, do you two think you can sort out the rest? You don't need anything written from me, do you, Howard?"

"Your word is good enough for me, Angela," Mr White assured her. "Don't worry."

"That's good because I really must ask to be excused. There's a salesman scheduled to arrive."

Mrs Bates and Mr White said good-bye quickly, but not without the due pleasantries. After she had left, the man finished filling in the forms and laid them out on the counter. Pointing with a biro, he told Draco where to sign.

Draco took the proffered biro. His signature turned out somewhat scrawled because he wasn't used to writing with biros, but Mr White didn't mind.

"Splendid," he said, as he reached for papers and biro. "Do you happen to have one pound on you that you could pay in, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco nodded. He always carried some small change for buying lunch and dinner.

"Lovely," Mr White said, accepting the coin. "We can get your account going right away."

He busied himself with a keyboard. Something rattled beneath the counter, and a moment later he laid a piece of paper in front of Draco.

"There you are, Mr Malfoy, your first bank statement." Indicating the respective columns with the biro, he explained the meaning of _date_, _description_, _money_ _in_, and _money_ _out_. "The balance is one pound at the moment as it should be. Overdraws will be marked OD. However, new customers are not allowed to overdraw within the first twelve months. The minimum operating balance is one pound during this period. Make sure to keep track. Bank statements will be sent to you monthly."

Draco gave a vague nod as he tried to commit the information to memory for later examination.

"It's all settled for now. You can give your employer your new account number," Mr White went on while he put Draco's Birth Certificate, the bank statement, the contract plus three additional pages of tiny print as well as an assortment of colourful leaflets into a sturdy folder. The folder he put into a jute bag and handed the whole package to Draco. "The credit check will probably take a week. It is a formality, but it has to be observed. I'll phone your landlady when you can come and fetch your debit card. Have a nice day, Mr Malfoy."

"And you," Draco said, feeling both dazed and relieved. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy, for doing business with us."

...

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...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) The _Silver_ _Seraph_ was produced from 1998 to 2002. It was powered by a 5.4 L, 12V BMW engine and had a top speed of 230 km/h (140 mph). Prices started from about £155, 000.

(2) Tesco is a chain of supermarkets in the UK. They were the first to sell mobiles at discount prices, thus making them available to everyone.

(3) Many thanks go to my beta readers for their help and support.


	37. Part 37

102. Admonition

Mrs Shaw scribbled the number of Draco's bank account on a scrap of paper and sent him on to Mrs Highbury.

The head librarian greeted him with a warm smile.

"I would like to talk to you about your employment contract, Mr Malfoy," she said once they were seated on either side of her desk. Placing a partially completed form before him, she continued, "I've prepared a standard contract. We'll pay the minimum wage of three pounds twenty pence per hour until you'll get paid the main rate when you turn twenty-two. The amount of notice of termination of your employment that you are entitled to receive is two weeks, and the amount of notice you are required to give is also two weeks. You'll work as instructed by the senior staff. No special responsibilities, the usual conditions concerning sickness et cetera. The only thing we really need to talk about is how many hours you'll work. I'd like to fix a minimum of twenty hours with an option to work more. This way, Helen can be sure she has you for at least twenty hours while you can be sure you don't have to work more than that during exams periods. I don't want the work to interfere with your studies. What do you say?"

"It's fine. I can work twenty hours per week."

"I meant twenty hours per month. You'll have to revise for your exams, Mr Malfoy. Don't underestimate the workload."

"There will be only one exam, Biology, and I've kept up with the recommended background reading."

He knew instantly that he had said the wrong thing when she straightened up in her chair and fixed him with a stern look.

"There will be only one exam?" she asked softly. "Why are you studying only one single subject?"

Why? He hadn't wasted any thought on choosing subjects. She had told him, a year ago, that Biology would help him to understand genetics. This had not come true – at least not until now; the lessons hadn't covered the topic yet. He didn't mind much, though. Biology had turned out to be a moderately interesting science.

"I didn't see the need to take more than one," he said. He had no use for A-levels. Even an A* would be meaningless in two years' time. But of course, he couldn't say that. So, he simply added, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise to me. It's your life you're mucking up, not mine."

He sighed. His life was a bigger mess than she could possibly imagine. But the more she tried to understand, the worse his predicament became. He couldn't speak about his problems without violating the _Statute_ _of_ _Wizarding_ _Secrecy_. All he could tell her were excuses and make-believe reasons and lies, lies, lies...

"I know I ruined my life, and you know that I'm not allowed to reveal details. Please, stop asking," he pleaded. "I'm tired of lying."

"Maybe that came out wrong, Mr Malfoy. I didn't mean to discuss your past," Mrs Highbury clarified. "I would like to direct your focus on what you will do in the future."

"I promise I'll study," he said quickly to placate her. She had always stressed how important learning was. "I'll take more subjects next year if you say that's the more sensible course of action."

"No offence, but you are missing the point. You can't have me make decisions for your life. It's _your_ life. _You_ decide. At least, you _will_ _have_ to decide one day. At the moment, however, I have the impression that all you're doing is putting decisions off."

He tensed. Her observation was correct, and he couldn't think of anything to say that would convince her otherwise.

"What do you want to do with your life, Mr Malfoy?" she prompted when he remained silent.

"I honestly don't know," he said after another long moment of silence. "I'm only sure about what I don't want. My life was planned out for me before I was born. Unfortunately, reality got in the way, and my mother's only fallback option has been to marry me off to a sufficiently well-heeled witch – no matter how fat or ugly or generally unpleasant she is, just rich and with the right pedigree. And it won't matter if she's six years older than I am because that will make up for my immaturity." He was aware that he was digressing, but he couldn't stop himself. This was something he could say out loud; it had nothing to with magic. "Maybe I can't argue that. Maybe I am immature. But the thought of allowing some such person into my bed – and be it solely for reproduction purposes – scares me beyond words. No matter how much I would be disgusted and feel like throwing up, literally like throwing up, we'd be husband and wife and would have to act accordingly. It wouldn't be enough to simply endure it. I would have to pretend that my life is exactly as I want it to be."

"Your preferences are nobody's concern but your own," Mrs Highbury said, hesitating very briefly before the word preferences. "Your mother may be disappointed, but we're living in the twenty first century. She can't force you to marry."

The last sentence startled him enough to make him twitch. He had feared Runcorn so far, but once his mother had her wand back, she too could force him into submission!

Would he be able to resist? Her skills and her cunning were clearly superior to his own. He also doubted that he'd have the guts to raise his wand against his mother. The question was whether she would raise hers against him. He hadn't dared to consider such a scenario before. He didn't want to think about it now because he didn't want to see how bleak his future was.

"I just want to be, just _be_," he said very softly. "I'm afraid I have no specific plans going beyond that. I just wish to be left alone."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me."

"You have no idea what my mother is capable of," he said while he searched for a way to get the point across without revealing the existence of magic. "She isn't alone. There are others who think the same way as she does. Her name, her maiden name in particular, still carries weight in certain circles. Like my mother, these people think of themselves as the _old_ _families_ or _pure-bloods_. I belong to this stratum by birth, and I am therefore expected to marry a daughter of one of these families and produce an heir with her. I once believed I would be able to choose. However, with our wealth gone and my father's and my own name tarnished, people are reluctant to connect themselves with us. That's why my mother is prepared to seize any opportunity. I doubt she would have considered Araminta Bulstrode for a single second before our fall from grace. Now she does. She sets great store by the old traditions. Aside from that, she wants to regain some wealth."

"Pure-bloods, Mr Malfoy? Are you serious? Money and bloodlines, is that all your mother cares about? Husband in jail, son under probation, and she still clings to her prejudices and dubious values? One should think she'd question her, well, principles after what has happened."

"My mother would have established these principles if they hadn't already existed," he said without thinking.

But it was true. His mother wouldn't dream of questioning the time-hallowed ways of the old families. Upholding the old customs was what she lived for.

_Old_ was indeed the keyword here. The fundamental pure-blood values had been there for centuries. The monster hadn't brought them up; it had merely capitalised on them. More importantly, these values hadn't perished along with it. Thanks to people like Runcorn and his mother, the old families' way of thinking persisted throughout all changes that life brought. They made sure the tenets of proper pure-blood conduct were passed down from generation to generation like deoxyribonucleic acid molecules.

Here, his thoughts suddenly stumbled.

The tenets the old families preached were based on a myth! There was no such thing as blood-purity. Didn't his mother see that? She wasn't stupid. She didn't need to know about chromosomes, Mendel's laws, or the influence of environmental factors on DNA performance to spot the flaws in her own family tree. He was pretty certain that she was aware of these flaws. Yet, she perpetuated the pretence and expected him to do the same.

Why?

The answer was simple. All the old families were related to each other. The unnamed woman Deneb Black had married in January 1817 was not only his mother's and his ancestor, but also the forebear of quite a few well-known witches and wizards living today. Aside from Procyon, her only son, she had borne seven daughters. All eight children had grown into adulthood, married, and procreated. Her name should appear in many a family tree, but it didn't. It had been deleted from the collective memory of the wizarding world. Was the reason hard to guess? No.

In all likelihood, a great number of people were in on the sham and hell-bent on maintaining it. Unless some piece of hard evidence forced them to do so, nobody from the old families would admit that their great-grandmother had been a half-blood and, consequently, their great-great-grandmother a Muggle-born witch or even a Muggle.

The purpose of "pure-blood" marriages wasn't to protect a fictitious blood-purity. The true goal was to keep the myth alive. Despite knowing this – no, that was wrong. Because of knowing this, his mother would insist on him marrying a daughter from a "respectable family".

What were his chances of escaping that fate?

...

103. Prospects

Mrs Highbury cleared her throat. She looked disgruntled.

Draco couldn't tell how long he had sat before her without saying a word. He pulled himself together and said, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for your mother's mind-set," Mrs Highbury said. "Perhaps we shouldn't stray any farther from the initial topic. I see two options for you, Mr Malfoy. Either you comply with your mother's wishes and marry into money, or you pursue a career that will ensure your independence. I suppose you are well aware of the pros and cons of the first option, and I believe I understand why you are reluctant about it. What puzzles me all the more is why you hesitate to choose the second one."

"Why do I hesitate?" he repeated to buy himself a few seconds to think. "That is because I do not know what to do. You say you won't make decisions for me, but I am willing to listen to your suggestions."

"Suggestions? What kind of suggestions do you expect of me?"

"Anything. I am at a complete loss. How do I take up a profession? Which one should I choose? What would I actually be able to do with my limited skills?"

"You really never thought about this, did you?"

"No, I didn't. Couldn't you give me at least an example? That would be more helpful than another assurance that, basically, everything is possible." He finally saw a chance to get the debate under control. "For instance, how did you become what you are now?"

"A-levels, Bachelor's degree in English and Communication, work in public libraries for several years, then postgraduate studies at Aberystwyth University with a two-year break when my daughter was born. After a stint at Exeter, I came here in 1989. I've been head librarian since 1996," she said rather quickly. "Mr Malfoy, my career is neither typical nor exemplary. In the beginning, I didn't even aim for librarianship. I dreamt of becoming a dramatic advisor or director at a theatre."

"Well, yes," he said while trying to process the information. "Would not being instructed by an experienced librarian and learning things by doing them be the most straightforward approach?"

"Of course, training on the job is possible. You can become a library assistant through an apprenticeship, but lesser qualifications will mean a smaller salary. You'll need a university degree if you want to climb the job ladder. Then again, if you are afraid that studying for a degree will be more than you can handle, then don't. Don't let your mother force you into a marriage you don't want; don't let me push you into an academic career you are not prepared for."

She paused for a calming breath.

Draco gave a slight nod to indicate his continued attention.

"Unless you go for a trade, you'll need A-levels," she went on. "To be honest, I can't picture you as a mason or joiner or something similar but, of course, you have the perfect right to become a workman if you want to. Mr Malfoy, I cannot tell you what _you_ _want_. I can only let you know my view on the matter, and here it is: considering how undecided you are, I'd say play to your strengths and choose French and Mathematics and perhaps one or two subsidiary subjects next year. English or Humanities will hardly go amiss. Re-sit ICT. Wherever you'll work, you'll need at least basic computer skills."

"All right. I'll think about it," he said, holding in a sigh. If he had truly planned on a career in her world, her last sentence would have dashed even the most humble of hopes.

"Good. Let's return to the business at hand, shall we?" Mrs Highbury said, holding up the contract. "What about working six hours per day? You may be able to pass that off as regular employment in your curriculum vitae, and Helen would be delighted."

It took him only a moment to make his mind up. More working hours would come in handy because he had reached the end of his reading list for genetics. The few remaining papers on recent research were so full of complicated scientific terminology and daunting chemistry he didn't understand much more than the abstracts even if he perused those papers three times over. He could as well quit; his chances to actually learn something were exhausted. Shelving books, although less demanding than studying genetics, was going to keep him busy from now on.

"That's fine by me," he said.

"Excellent."

She made the necessary adjustments; he took out his fountain pen.

"Please, sign here, Mr Malfoy," she said, placing the form once more before him.

He read through the contract, and then he signed it with his full name. He was writing the _f_ in Malfoy when, all of a sudden, he had the eerie feeling of being outside his body and watching himself.

He had pledged his service once before. Back then, he had not signed any form or parchment. The idea that the monster might have deemed its followers worthy of a written agreement – even one sealed with their own, oh so pure blood – was preposterous. Instead, they had been branded as it befitted slaves. _It's_ _a_ _lifetime_ _of_ _service_ _or_ _death_.

The document he was signing now contained no threats of any kind. There was no penalty for wanting to back out. If he wished to quit, he simply would have to say so two weeks in advance. The contrast couldn't be any starker.

Gripping the pen more firmly, he wrote the _o_ and the _y_ and added a flourish.

He straightened up and looked at Mrs Highbury.

"When am I expected to be here tomorrow?" he asked.

"As usual, I'd say. Discuss the details with Helen." She smiled at him. "And, Mr Malfoy, welcome to the team!"

...

104. Future and Present

He dropped his employment contract and the jute bag onto the desk in his room and went straight on to Hind Green. Jogging, he reviewed the events of the day.

He owed Mrs Bates a favour. She wasn't the person to make a big deal of it, though, and perhaps he could even find a way to oblige her before she thought of calling in the favour.

He had a bank account now. This was probably an improvement as it seemed to be expected of all members of the population to have one. He didn't know yet what to do with it, but maybe finding out could wait.

Mrs Highbury's interrogation had come completely out of the blue, but he thought that he had handled the situation well. He had managed to steer clear of all things connected to magic, and she, although not liking them much, had accepted his answers. The admonition he could stomach.

He had never aimed for formal employment. Signing the contract was, in some way, another, almost logical step in a process that had slowly evolved ever since the afternoon when he had first set foot into the library. He couldn't say that he was exceedingly shocked.

Besides, shelving books was definitely better than risking to lapse into ceaseless brooding again. Being able to say, "I work at the library of the university and, yes, I can prove it" was also a good thing because it should help to make people less inclined to question his presence in their world. At any rate, he felt a bit more secure thanks to this new arrangement.

He even had something like a plan for the rest of his probation period.

Regrettably, he couldn't say the same for the time afterwards. He had absolutely no idea what to do two years hence. A strategy that was successful here didn't necessarily bring the same positive results in the wizarding world. Who was going to employ a Malfoy? Even if he found somebody willing to accept a traitor who had talked to the Aurors – or, from another point of view, a former Death Eater – there would still be the question of his skills and abilities. The lack of formal qualifications aside, he hadn't much to offer. Arithmancy and Astronomy, which he had taken at N.E.W.T level, were sciences with little everyday use. Only the Ministry hired Astronomers and Arithmancers to work in the research-oriented departments. Needless to say, Shacklebolt's henchmen wouldn't let him within a mile of such facilities.

He would probably make a decent potioneer. He might be hired to brew potions in the backroom of an apothecary's – under the condition that he never, ever showed his face to the patrons. Well, he could live with that; he wasn't eager to be seen. His weekly salary, however, would hardly come up to five Galleons. It was laughable to think he could gain independence this way.

That left him with only the marriage option.

If he complied with his mother's demands, his choice would be narrowed to a fistful of eligible heiresses. But even if he cast aside all considerations of wealth or parentage, the number of potential brides who were roughly his age was limited.

He paraded the female students from his year, the two years above and the two years below in his mind's eye. Of Jenny Baddock, Cedrella Smith, and Elissa – or perhaps Elissia – Pritchard he knew no more than that they existed. Then there were spindly, squint-eyed Martha Flint and dim-witted Philotta Mulciber – he'd rather not see either one walk up to him in bridal robes. Dorea Rosier was less stupid than Mulciber, but a downright bitch. Daphne Greengrass was shapelier than Flint, but unable to keep her mouth shut for more than five seconds. He certainly didn't want to listen to her prattle for the rest of his days. A fair number of girls had already been betrothed while still at school. Wilma Gamp had left Hogwarts during her seventh year to marry a prosperous mandrake grower from some little place near Cork. Millicent wasn't any better than her sister, Dorea Broadmoor was a Gobstones maniac, and a renewed relationship with Pansy would be awkward, and that was putting it mildly.

Besides, who would want him? Everybody at Hogwarts had seen him go from cocky Malfoy scion to pathetic weakling. What could he expect except contempt and, perhaps on rare occasions, pity?

In fact, he might encounter worse sentiments than contempt. Most girls from other Hogwarts houses would probably hex him six ways to Sunday as soon as he came into wand-range. Some from his own house might do so as well – Davis, for instance. He had pointedly ignored the lone half-blood in Slytherin throughout their time at school. If he approached her now with a marriage proposal, she would most likely answer with a Bat Bogey Hex three times more vicious than the one that the Weasley girl had thrown at him.

Ending up with somebody who despised him, with a wife who sneered at him from the far end of a twenty feet long breakfast table, was a frightening thought. Maybe he should wait until a generation came of age that had not been at school with him. Then again, the thought of a hapless girl who was at least seven years his junior being bullied into his bed by _her_ parents because they were fatuous enough to believe they'd benefit from the liaison was appalling as well.

He didn't want to deliberate on the likeliness of such scenarios. He dearly wished Mrs Highbury hadn't urged him contemplate his future.

Perhaps he should propose to Ludmilla Crabbe. She was a likable person and, aged thirty-seven now, still young enough to bear children. There was no disgrace in marrying a widow. Perhaps this was the most sensible solution he mused as he ran on. Perhaps he should take the initiative before his mother got a chance to do so.

Maintaining a steady pace, he ran lap after lap.

It took him hours to calm down and to console himself with the thought that immediate action wasn't necessary. He could stay here for two more years. Afterwards, another two and a half years would have to elapse before his mother got her wand back.

...

The moon had sunk low and disappeared behind the ugly building of the supermarket when he eventually went home.

Back in his room, Draco emptied the jute bag. It looked enduring and was big enough for two folders and some additional stuff. He decided to use it from now on instead of the plastic bags that never lasted long.

He hid the employment contract along with his Birth Certificate at the bottom of the wardrobe beneath the never-sent letter to his mother.

The leaflets that Mr White had given him were advertisements. He put them onto the bookshelf, unread. The three pages of tiny print were _General_ _Terms_ _and_ _Conditions_. He tried to read through them in the hope of getting a more detailed insight into bank proceedings, but he was tired, and the terminology was as complicated as that of scientific papers on genetics.

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...

to be continued

...

Author's notes:

(1) I did my best to find out about the history of minimum wages in the UK. Apparently, people younger than 22 were paid £3.20 per hour previous to October 2001.

(3) Many thanks go to my beta readers for their help and support.


	38. Part 38

105. Clocks and Debit Cards

As promised, Mrs Bates relayed messages from Mr White. She told Draco that there had been a phone call about a debit card being ready to be picked up. Draco had no idea what a debit card was, but decided to ask Mr White rather than his landlady. Maybe the man would even volunteer an explanation.

The next morning, Draco made a little detour on his way to the library and went to the bank office. As he couldn't spot Mr White anywhere in the counter hall, he walked up to the only clerk not engaged in conversation with a patron.

"Good morning, sir," the young woman beamed before he could say something.

Draco felt somewhat strange at being called _sir_, but also encouraged.

"Good morning, Miss. I was looking for Mr White. You wouldn't know where I could find him?"

"I'm afraid Mr White isn't in today," she said. "Maybe I can help you?"

"I'm here to collect my debit card."

"Well, there shouldn't be a problem," she said and smiled broadly. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't catch your name."

"Draco Malfoy."

"Mr Malfoy, yes, that was it," she said, still smiling. "I'll see to your new debit card immediately. If you will please wait for a moment?"

She walked over to another clerk and conferred with her. Then both women went to a roller shutter cabinet at the back of the room. Draco couldn't make out what they were doing there because a potted plant blocked his vision, but he didn't have to wait long for the young clerk to come back.

"There you are, Mr Malfoy. Your debit card," she said cheerfully and gave Draco a small, rectangular piece of plastic with his name and two long numbers on it. In the upper right-hand corner, there was the logo of the bank house, "Keep it safe. Don't let anyone else use it. Don't leave it lying around. Make sure to phone us immediately should you lose it despite your utmost care."

"Yes, Miss. I'll keep in mind what I shouldn't do with this card. But what do I do with it?"

The smile on her chubby face wavered.

"I'm not sure I understand your question, sir," she said.

"What am I supposed to do with this card?" Draco asked. "What is it good for?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you do not know what a debit card is?" she asked very carefully.

"Yes, miss."

"I see," she said slowly and looked Draco up and down, probably searching for signs that made such ignorance plausible.

Draco didn't like the way the exchange was going. He was about to tell her that he had only been joking, when she suddenly started to speak.

"A debit card is an electronic card issued by a bank. It allows bank clients access to their account to withdraw cash or pay for goods and services at all times. Debit cards remove the need for card holders to go to the local bank office during opening hours to remove cash from their account because they can use cash machines with their debit card or pay electronically at merchant locations. Debit cards are considered a safe form of payment because a code is required to access the account funds."

She sounded like a student reciting a well-rehearsed answer in class, and she wasn't done yet. After taking a deep breath, she continued, "Debit cards also remove the need for checks because they transfer money from the client's account to the account of the business immediately. This is also the main difference between a debit card and a credit card. Debit cards take money directly from the client's account, whereas credit cards borrow the money from the issuer of the card. The major benefits to debit cards are convenience and security."

Her smile came back with the last words, and it was a triumphant one.

"Er, right," Draco said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she beamed. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, I would like to know where you intent to put my money."

The big smile slid off her face.

"You're here to test me, aren't you, sir?" she asked in a small voice.

"No, I'm not. Why would I do that?"

"Because it's my first day today. The management sent you to check on me, right?"

"Most certainly not," Draco said, finally noticing the badge on her jacket. _Trainee_ it read. "I was just wondering because I don't have a vault yet."

"A vault?" All of a sudden, she looked pitifully confused. "I'm not sure how we proceed with vaults, sir. I'm very sorry. I'll ask Mrs Cox-Robinson. I'll ask her right away if you wish, sir?"

"No, please, don't bother her," Draco said quickly. The conversation was becoming precarious, and he didn't want anyone else involved.

"It's no bother, sir. Not at all!"

"No, please, I need to go. I'm scheduled for work," Draco said, backing off. "It was a pleasure talking to-"

"No, sir, wait!" the trainee cried urgently. "I have to brief you on the PIN!"

"The pin?"

"Yes, your PIN. It will be sent to you by mail within the next three workdays. Please never and under no circumstances keep your PIN in the same place as your debit card. The best course of action would be to memorise the PIN and then destroy the letter."

Draco wasn't able to make head or tail of this, but the girl looked like somebody who had just performed a difficult task with smashing success.

"Thank you. I'll commit that to memory," he said curtly. "If you will please excuse me now."

"Thank you for doing business with us." She was beaming again. "Have a nice day, sir!"

"And you," he said, retreating.

The clock above the exit told him that he was indeed running late.

Three years ago, during the first months in Trethwyn, his main problem with time had been having too much of it. He remembered the ordeal of having to spend twenty-four long, unoccupied hours each day. Back then, he had contented himself with telling the time with the help of the compass points and the sun or, at night, the constellations. The margin of error was somewhere around one half of an hour and, needless to say, the methods learned from Sinistra didn't work well when the sky was clouded. They had nevertheless been good enough because he'd had neither duties nor appointments.

Now he did. When the rota said he was to be in the library at nine o'clock sharp then he had to be there at nine o'clock sharp.

It wasn't just a question of not dallying. Working six hours a day, he could no longer muddle through in the same way as he had done so far. So far, turning up anywhere on time had only been necessary for lessons and exams, which had never been a big problem since he knew how long it took him on average to walk from Hind Green Close or from the library to the respective school buildings. He'd usually set out a bit early to be on the safe side, and to determine when "a bit early" was he had used the clocks available to him. One was in his room at Mrs Bates's and one in the breakfast room. There were clocks on every floor in the library and in or just outside the classrooms. A number of other buildings in the city featured clocks as well, and there was also the lone sundial in the park near the citadel.

Now things were different. Knowing that it was approximately one hour past noon didn't suffice anymore. Now it did matter whether he returned from the dining hall at half past twelve or at a quarter to one and whether walking back to the library took him five minutes or six and a half. For the first time since he had left the manor, he missed his emerald-studded pocket-watch for other than nostalgic reasons.

...

106. Remarkable Books

Before long, working six hours a day led to new tasks for Draco.

Mrs Shaw had him check returned books for damage and sort them onto trolleys, or she had him run errands, for example delivering periodicals to the offices of professors.

Miss Thompson, who was a senior staff member and often in charge of the late shift, taught him to operate the photocopier. He learned quickly, and soon he spent whole afternoons on making xerographic copies. It was a task he didn't like much, though. It was boring, and the machine got hot after a while and emitted strange fumes.

Thanks to his work in the library, Draco also made a marvellous discovery: _The_ _Encyclopaedia_ _Britannica_. The books were positioned on the third floor in a glass cubicle that resembled Mrs Highbury's office. Although there was no sign saying so, Draco had always considered it the counterpart of the restricted section in the library at Hogwarts and, consequently, never entered it. His assumption had been wrong – the compartment was open to all patrons, and the multi-volume encyclopaedia could be used without explicit permission.

In the following weeks, he spent every minute he could spare on reading up on things that had puzzled him during the past three years. It was like slowly unearthing a treasure. He tended to get lost in the maze of cross-references, and some of the entries were difficult to understand and left him with five times more questions than answers, but he finally found postcodes explained and got at least a general idea about the purpose of debit cards and National Insurance Numbers. To himself, he sometimes referred to the set of tomes as _The_ _Worthwhile_ _Guide_ _to_ _the_ _Non_-_Wizarding_ _World_.

...

His work in the library notwithstanding, Draco continued to attend the Biology lessons. They had always been reasonably interesting without being too demanding. This changed at the end of April. The teacher suddenly introduced topics that were pure Chemistry.

Draco had to deal with a confusing variety of digestive processes that broke down ordinary food into basic nutrients and, barely a couple of weeks later, with _photosynthesis_. Try as he might, his attempts to understand the processes that went on unseen in subcellular areas met with next to no success. The textbook wasn't much help, the entries in _The_ _Encyclopaedia_ _Britannica_ stretched over several pages and were brimming with chemical equations that went right over his head, and his search for books that described the matter in simpler terms remained futile.

While he was still stuck with the particulars of the _Calvin_ _cycle_ and all the other convoluted reactions, the sole lesson about genetics came and went. Nothing was said during this lesson that Draco hadn't already known for months. He should have felt disappointed, but he was almost glad. Genetics was the one topic he definitely didn't have to worry about. On photosynthesis, however, he would have to give up altogether. Considering its mindboggling complexity, he couldn't even hope to learn the facts by rote. Mrs Shaw had promised to give him time off, but the examinations were merely a week ahead, and he needed to revise for everything from monads to multifaceted ecosystems.

The situation worsened further at the end of the very last lesson. The teacher apologised for not having covered all relevant topics and named two extra books that the students were to read in order to prepare for the examinations. The announcement caused the class to erupt into chaos.

Ignoring the angry complaints around him, Draco noted down the titles of the two books and left. He couldn't believe it – two more books to read with only three days to go until he had to sit the first paper! How sensible was it to tackle entirely new learning material at this point?

Then again, "Eels & Snails & Puppy Dogs' Tails" sounded like a compilation of former topics. The second book was called "Sugar & Spice & All Things Nice". The choice of words hinted at food and digestion processes, but he'd rather not waste any more time on glucose and amino acids or whatever else a sandwich became after you had eaten it.

Instead of looking up the two books, he sat down with the exam papers of the past five years. They were a gift from Mrs Highbury.

The support that people showed him astonished Draco. Mrs Shaw gave him almost two entire weeks off, Mrs Highbury provided helpful material, and his other colleagues wished him good luck when they happened to meet him.

He'd rather they didn't. Unbeknownst to themselves, they partook in a sham. If they were less eager to help and to cheer him on, he might be better off because their friendliness and honest well-wishing constantly reminded him of his own insincerity. The bitter truth was that he was still doing what he had always done – he hid who and what he really was behind a carefully maintained facade.

But what else could he do? In order to pass for a citizen of this world, he had to act like one. He had to sit exams to protect his cover. He had to pass these exams to keep Mrs Highbury placid.

Besides, his thirst for knowledge wasn't entirely faked. He did want to learn. He had to admit that he was intrigued by the ability of plants to produce sugar from light. Food was the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and photosynthesis was a bit like conjuring food from thin air. He would like to understand how it worked, and he was resolved to delve into the science that described it – at a later time and at his leisure.

...

He used the remaining days to work his way methodically through the old exam papers. Moderately pleased with the outcome – his performance would be far from perfect, but he was confident that he would pass – he decided to have at least a glance at the last-minute reading material that the teacher had recommended.

The books looked very similar and were by the same author. According to the subtitles, one book was aimed at female readers and the other one at male ones. Draco took the latter to his desk, wondering why such a distinction was made.

The reason became clear pretty quickly. If he hadn't been holding it in his hands, he wouldn't have believed such a book existed. He couldn't imagine anything remotely similar sitting on a shelf in the library at Hogwarts, restricted section included. Finding such a book anywhere at Malfoy Manor was even more unimaginable. Enthralled by the topic, Draco couldn't stop reading even though he knew he had to sit the first paper at eight o'clock the next morning.

The book was detailing – and _detailing_ was indeed the word – childbirth, pregnancy, and conception. The amount of presented facts was overwhelming. There was even a whole chapter on how to avoid conception if pregnancy wasn't desired! More astounding still, if that were possible, were the moral considerations frequently woven into the text. The author emphasised on nearly every second page that people involved in any type of intimate relationship should make sure they were happy and comfortable with whatever they did. Draco wholeheartedly agreed. Nobody should be forced to share his bed with a woman he couldn't stand.

It wasn't before closing hour that he returned the book to the shelf. His mind was reeling. And now, with the option of clinging to the scientific aspects gone, he couldn't ignore any longer how his body reacted to the subject matter. Maybe he could have coped with mere text, but the author had added illustrations. Some of the pictures bypassed all higher brain functions and appealed straight to instinct.

The air was chilly and the wind sharp when he walked up Hind Green Close. As unpleasant as the weather was, it did absolutely nothing to quench the throbbing hotness that spread out from his pelvis region. So, without worrying much whether anyone in the house might notice, he ran himself a bath at a quarter to one in the morning. He added a generous shot of fragrant bath soap before he did what the book had called _masturbation_.

Relief came within seconds – much more quickly than usual and much too quickly for his taste. Feeling nonetheless a bit drowsy and also still dazed from the quantity of information he had tried to absorb in the space of a few hours, he lounged in the bathtub for a while longer.

Among other things, he had learned the correct technical term as well as a number of vulgar expressions for what he had just done here in this bathtub instead of bathing. Even so, he would stick to simulated intercourse. It felt right to have a private phrase for something as private as this.

...

107. Another Adventure at the Bank Office

His stock of valid money had run low. By the time Draco had sat the last of the six papers required for an A-level in Biology, there wasn't enough left to pay Mrs Bates the next rent. That was why he had to solve the problem quickly.

Preparing himself mentally for the inevitable trips to the post and bank offices all around the city, he took out the stacks of Michael-Faraday-banknotes from the bottom of his wardrobe. When he removed the layer of plastic bags that covered them, he came across the letters from the bank.

Five such letters had arrived since February. Using the unwonted lack of time as an excuse, he had simply put them aside, unopened. The truth was that he hadn't felt like dealing with them. Now he sat down to read.

The oldest letter notified him about his _PIN._ Yes, it was the PIN, not a pin. A _personal_ _identification_ _number_ was a surprisingly simple affair. It consisted of a couple of prime numbers, twin primes to be exact, and was perfectly easy to memorise. Following the trainee's advice, Draco destroyed the letter on the spot.

The other letters contained a bank statement each. By the look of it, Mrs Shaw had been as good as her word. Money had been transferred at regular intervals.

He gazed at the four-digit figure on the statement for May for several minutes, wondering where the actual money was stored. He was the rightful owner of this money, wasn't he? There had to be a way to claim it.

Prodding himself into action, he slipped his debit card and the folded-up bank statement into the breast pocket of his shirt and went to the branch office in Queens Street.

...

Mr White was in, but busy. While Draco waited for the man to finish the conversation with a patron, he watched people operating the cash machines.

From nearby, these machines resembled computers. There was no mouse but some sort of keyboard and a screen. Whenever one of the machines was unoccupied, its screen read _Please_ _insert_ _your_ _debit_ _card_.

Perhaps he should just try. After all, he had made a telephone and the lift work for him. Judging from what he could observe, the modus operandi here was a similar one – you had to press keys.

The next time one of the machines became unoccupied, he stepped up to it. Emulating what he had seen people do, he put his debit card tentatively into the slot on the upper right-hand side. He jumped with surprise when the machine all but ripped it from his fingers.

The inscription on the screen changed to _Accessing_, _please_ _wait_.

For about thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then the card came back out, and the display reverted to _Please_ _insert_ _your_ _debit_ _card_.

He made a second attempt. The card was pulled out of his hand like before. The display changed to _Accessing_, _please_ _wait_. The machine took half a minute to decide that it wasn't in the mood for work and spat the card back out.

Draco pulled the card back, counted to ten, and inserted it again. Things went as before, and the result was also the same – the card protruded from the machine. It rather looked as if the damn thing was sticking its tongue out at him.

Just what had he expected? The device _looked_ like a computer, so it _behaved_ like one.

Especially annoying was the fact that the other two machines seemed to have a better sense of duty. Draco glanced furtively at his neighbours. To his left, a podgy woman keyed in instructions. To his right, a tall bespectacled lady did the same. The machine delivered a large number of banknotes to her. The other woman was lucky as well; she got about two hundred pounds. She left and a businessman – three-piece suit, gold-and-burgundy striped necktie, posh briefcase – took her place. He casually slipped the debit card in and operated the keyboard without really looking at it. Something that he read on the screen made him curse under his breath, but the machine let him have a couple of banknotes nonetheless.

In the meanwhile, a woman had started to use the cash machine to Draco's right. She was tapping her foot impatiently while she glowered at the screen in front of her. No sooner did the money emerge than she grabbed the rather thick wad with one hand and pulled her debit card out with the other. She turned on her heel and hurried off, almost breaking into a run.

Just as quickly, Draco moved over to the seemingly less obstinate machine. He put his debit card into the slot. It was sucked in. The screen read, _Accessing_, _please_ _wait_. For thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then the card came back out.

Suppressing a sigh, he tried again.

It was no use, though. He and computers just didn't get along.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that somebody was about to use the machine he had abandoned. He turned and watched – rather overtly – how the wayward device accepted the man's debit card straight away. The sigh that he had held in a minute ago escaped him.

"Did you want something?" the man asked sharply.

The sudden question startled Draco even though the other was hardly older and almost a foot shorter than he was.

"The machine keeps rejecting my debit card," he managed to say.

"Then use this one here. It works perfectly fine," the man said with a shrug.

Draco stayed where he was when the man left with the small stack of banknotes that the machine had delivered to him. Going back to the first machine wouldn't help. He was doing something wrong, that much was certain. But what?

He let his gaze travel through the room. Unfortunately, Mr White was still engrossed in conversation. The other clerks seemed busy as well.

Not willing to accept defeat yet, Draco resorted again to watching a neighbour, a dark, grey-haired lady clad in an abundance of multi-coloured silk. The elegance of her attire almost distracted him enough to miss what happened. The machine rejected her debit card!

He waited with bated breath how the woman would coax the device into cooperating.

The solution was spectacularly unspectacular. The woman turned her card around one hundred and eighty degrees before she inserted it again.

Draco looked at his debit card. So that was the nifty trick? The side that bore the logo of the bank house had to face toward the slot?

He tried it. The machine snatched the card from his fingers, told him to wait – and came up with a new request: _Please_ _enter_ _your_ _personal_ _identification_ _number_ (_PIN_). _Confirm_ _with_ _green_ _key_.

Carefully, Draco typed in the two prime numbers and pressed the green key.

The machine was apparently pleased. It now addressed him – via the screen – as Mr Draco Malfoy and asked whether he wished to see the balance of his account.

He pressed the key for yes; Mr White had told him to keep track.

A second later, the balance appeared on the screen. However, there was no other information than that of the statement in his pocket. Draco confirmed that he had seen enough whereupon the display listed a variety of possible further actions for him to choose from. He selected _withdraw_ _money_. After all, this was why he was here.

He decided on five hundred pounds when the machine asked him how much money he would like to have. There weren't only the daily expenses and the rent to pay. He also needed a haircut and a new pair of trainers.

Once more, the display told him to wait. At this point, it seemed reasonable; the money had to be fetched.

Perhaps the money was stored in a room beyond the wall Draco mused. Was there a servant who could read what was wanted from the back of the screen, or did the machine do everything by itself? Either way, it was more comfortable for the patrons than to sit in an unpadded cart and hurtle at breakneck speed though underground facilities.

Nothing at all happened for quite a while, and Draco started to worry whether he had made yet again a mistake. Then, completely out of the blue, an ominous rattle set in somewhere in the bowels of the machine. Almost panicking, he looked around whether somebody was there he could turn to for help. Unfortunately, the other two cash machines stood deserted, and all clerks were far away behind their counters.

He swivelled back to the machine when the noise stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He looked at it just in time to see the display change to _Thank_ _you_ _for_ _using_ _our_ _service_. A heartbeat later the money appeared, and his debit card re-emerged.

He exhaled in relief and reached for both.

He had done it. The machine had obeyed his orders, he held his first self-earned money in his hands, and – all of a sudden – the feeling of relief transformed into one of triumph.

"Yes!" The shout was out before he could stop himself.

People throughout the room looked at him curiously. Somebody behind him giggled.

He knew he should be embarrassed by his behaviour, but he wasn't.

He put the debit card back into his shirt pocket, shoved the twenty-five Sir-Edward-banknotes into a pocket of his trousers, and went to the dining hall to celebrate with a cup of hot chocolate and a scone.

...

- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -

...

to be continued

...

Author's note: Many thanks go to my beta readers for their help and support.


	39. Part 39

108. Summertime

There was much to do in the library even with the majority of the university students having gone home for their summer break.

Draco got long lists of seldom-used materials from Mrs Shaw or Miss Thompson. He had to remove the specified items from the shelves and carry them to storage rooms that weren't open to the public. He also had to replace dated textbooks with copies of more recent editions.

He became good at retrieving misplaced books. He found them shoved behind larger tomes or on the shelf exactly opposite of the one where they belonged. A surprising amount of books turned up in an entirely wrong section or even on a wrong floor – he located books on Civil Engineering on the shelf reserved for Oceanography and a Compendium of Hydrogeology between dictionaries, for example. Once, he detected a couple of books that had been camouflaged with wrong dust jackets. This, at least, couldn't have happened by accident.

"Well, it's the doing of some really selfish students," Mrs Shaw said when Draco asked her. "Maybe sometimes it's just due to haste or nervous tension, especially close to the exams. But more often than not, books are hidden on purpose. It's a sly way to secure a copy of a much sought-after book for one's own use and to stop others from finding it."

To Draco, the method sounded rather Slytherin.

He devised a search tactic and then, mainly outside his regular working hours, he sifted through the shelves. It was curiously satisfying to outwit the nameless cheats. Recovering supposedly lost books also earned him commendation from the staff. He soaked up the praise without ever saying a single word in return.

...

The letter from the examination board arrived in the middle of August. Draco had scored a B, which was more or less what he had expected. That night, while jogging a number of extra laps, he told himself that it was about time to come to terms with reality. He was mediocre, and this wasn't going to change. He would never excel at anything.

...

Time passed quickly. Soon, the holiday season was drawing to its close. Most staff members were back from their trips to various parts of the world. Miss Thompson had visited Paris and couldn't stop rhapsodising about it. Mrs Shaw and her family had holidayed in the Lake District. Others had been to Spain, Scotland, or even the Caribbean.

Mrs Highbury looked tanned and happy when she returned from two weeks of cycling in Flanders. One of the first things she did after her return was summoning Draco to her office.

She reminded him that he, too, was entitled to paid leave and suggested he should take the next two weeks off.

"Get a bit of rest and fresh air," she said. "Be back when term starts on September 17th."

Draco nodded almost too eagerly. The prospect of a fortnight in Trethwyn was very appealing after a whole summer spent indoors.

"Speaking of the upcoming term," Mrs Highbury said, switching from the prelude to the main purpose of the meeting, "would you mind telling me what your plans are for the foreseeable future?"

"I think I'll study Mathematics as it was one of my better subjects at GCSE level. I'll also apply for Astronomy and Latin."

"Why Latin and not French?" Mrs Highbury wondered.

"French is descended from Latin, and I'd like to broaden my knowledge," he said, hoping she would see this as a sufficient explanation.

The true reason for choosing the three subjects was that he had, to a degree, some insight into them from his former life, and that they would therefore come more easily to him than, for instance, Chemistry or computer stuff. They were also fairly theoretical fields of study. With them, he wasn't in too much danger of outing himself as the alien he was.

On the other hand, he'd like to learn something that was useful for everyday life.

"What subject would I have to study in order to understand General Conditions?" he asked.

"General Conditions? What are you referring to?"

"I got three pages of tiny print called General Terms and Conditions when Mrs Shaw sent me to have the bank people create an account for me. I'd like to know how transferring my wage exactly works, and where they actually keep my money."

The puzzled look on her face dissolved, and a small, slightly impish smile took its place.

"You want Business Studies," she said. "Or Economics. Let's see what is on offer, shall we?"

She swivelled her chair to the right and started to use the keyboard on her desk. Draco watched her reading information off the screen and typing in more words.

"There's a short course called Economics and Accounting. Short course means you can only get an AS grade doing it," she said, swivelling back. "The same goes for Astronomy and Latin. They're only available as short courses."

"I'm not sure I understand the implications," Draco said slowly.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure myself; the new system allows for greater flexibility than the old one. Short courses will contribute to your tariff points. So, taking one or two will probably be fine. However, the problem is elsewhere. You cannot do both Economics and Latin. The lessons will take place at the same time."

"Then I'll take French," Draco said. He would muddle through, someway.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, either. I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, for berating you for studying only Biology last year. You couldn't have attended another full course if you had wanted to. They all take place simultaneously. I'm sorry; I didn't know that," Mrs Highbury said. "Of course, offering evening classes while many people are still at work doesn't make much sense. And starting lessons at ten in the evening? Well, I for my part wouldn't like to study that late."

"So, what do I do?" Draco asked.

"Have a look for yourself," Mrs Highbury said and turned the computer screen so that he could see the large, multicoloured timetable displayed on it.

"The full courses – Maths, natural sciences, modern languages, History, Health Care," – Mrs Highbury gestured with her biro to indicate the relevant areas on the display – "start without exception at half past seven. See? Most short courses overlap as well."

While studying genetics, Draco had become good at analysing complex charts. The timetable was simple by comparison.

"Here," he said, cautiously pointing a finger at the screen, "that will work – Economics and Accounting doesn't conflict with Astronomy because the Astronomy lessons on Wednesdays start at half past ten. Maybe that is because it has to be dark for watching planets or constellations."

"Well," Mrs Highbury said, leaning back in her chair, "Maths is always a good choice, and Economics can't do any harm, either. Make sure you don't miss the deadline. And then pack your suitcase and leave for the beach. Or do you prefer the mountains?"

"I'll stay at _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_ in Trethwyn," Draco said, rising. "I've spent the entire summer in this building here, and I haven't been swimming once..."

He trailed off when he noticed that the woman was giving him one of her probing looks.

"I like working here, of course," he amended. "I like your library – the smell of books and wood, the soft purr of the air conditioning, the carpets that dampen the footfall. I like the way how it is always quiet and peaceful in here."

"But?"

"I haven't really contemplated this until now, but this summer has been different than the ones before. Last year, for example, I walked to Land's End and St Yves and then all the way back."

"Well then," she said, the smile back in place, "enjoy your holidays!"

...

109. A Grey Day in September

To make the most of his short holidays, Draco went swimming even in the daytime.

The _Cliff_ _Sun_ _Club_ had put up new signs. The caption _Naturist_ _Resort_ was followed by a warning in three languages – English, French, and probably Dutch – _You_ _are_ _entering_ _private_ _property_. _The_ _proprietor_ _will_ _assume_ _no_ _liability_ _for_ _physical_ _damages_, _bodily_ _injury_ _or_ _emotional_ _distress_ _and_ _discomfort._ Draco couldn't help but smirk at the phrasing. He minimised the risk of experiencing emotional distress or discomfort by having a little interlude of simulated intercourse before he went to the beach.

When he didn't go swimming he sat somewhere near the Coast Path, sketching the landscape with its rolling hills and overgrown hedges, or the cliffs and the sea.

He hadn't lied to Mrs Highbury; he did like the library. But now, as he actually was in Trethwyn, he realised just how much he had missed the sound of the waves and the taste of salt in the air. It felt good to be outside from dawn to dusk.

The village was quieter than the year before. The garish umbrellas in front of the baker's were gone, and the shop was closed. The building on the site where Mr Penwith's home had been looked exactly as it had done twelve months ago. It still had no roof, and no workmen were there.

Mr Webster had gone bankrupt. Draco heard the whole ignominious story from the owner of the convenience store where he bought his sunblock. The baker was ruined as well because he had invested all his money into the ventures of his son-in-law and had also co-signed a credit agreement.

...

The weather was splendid throughout the first week. At the beginning of the second one, the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Sitting outside and doing sketches became rather unpleasant. So, Draco decided on a long walk on Tuesday morning.

He set off right after breakfast. The sea had been rough during the night and had washed ashore big quantities of seaweed and algae. Draco carefully negotiated his way around the piles of squishy, greenish-brown stuff lest he ruin his new trainers.

The piles became larger near the cliffs. Heaps of algae interspersed with jellyfish had been caught among the boulders. There, disaster struck. Draco slipped on something slick.

A sharp pain ripped through his right leg, making him cry out.

Clutching his ankle, he waited for the agony to subside. When it had lessened a bit, he lowered himself cautiously onto one of the boulders and examined the injured foot. It looked all right, but it hurt like hell, and he couldn't put weight on it.

What was he do? He couldn't cast a pain-easing charm, let alone heal the foot. Hover Charms, broomsticks, Lightweight Spells, Portkeys – nothing was available to him. He didn't even have a non-magical means to bandage the ankle.

He was completely out of options. The village was two miles away, give or take a few hundred yards. He couldn't walk, not a single soul was anywhere in sight, and there was next to no hope that anybody would come to the place for the rest of the day. Maybe situations like this one were the reason non-wizarding people had invented mobile phones.

He sat on the boulder for a while longer, trying to come up with a solution. The wind ripped at his clothes, and he soon started to feel cold.

He had to get to the pub. Somehow, he had to.

...

Hopping awkwardly on his good foot, he struggled along the beach at a snail's pace. The injured joint protested nearly every move, and his strength waned quickly. He had to pause and rest at increasingly shorter intervals.

Whenever he put the damaged foot down – by accident or even at will because he tottered and was in acute danger of falling and suffering more injuries – the result was a fresh wave of pain that shot up his leg. The agony drove tears to his eyes. He'd have given anything for a _Lenio_ _Dolorem_. Well, perhaps not anything. Enduring the pain was still better than going to Azkaban.

Around lunchtime, drizzle set in. When he finally reached the village, the streets lay deserted. However, when he hopped past the tourist office, the woman who worked there came out to ask what his odd behaviour meant.

Thoroughly exhausted, Draco slumped down onto the low outside sill of the shop window before he told her about his mishap.

"Such things are not to be trifled with," she said. "How bad is it?"

Instead of answering, Draco lifted his right trouser leg.

The woman blanched at the sight.

"Good gracious, you need to go to the hospital!" she exclaimed. "They'll have to do an X-ray on that foot!"

"I'm afraid I won't go anywhere but back to _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_," he said wearily. "I don't even know where the hospital is."

"Don't worry, dear, I'll call the paramedics."

She hurried inside to make the phone call.

Once he was alone, Draco lifted the trouser leg again and risked a look. The ankle was purple in colour and had swollen to twice its normal size.

He leaned against the wooden frame of the shop window and closed his eyes. He felt queasy. The ankle throbbed in a dull fashion even if he didn't move. The thought of how crude medicine was in this part of the world didn't make him feel any better. He all too vividly recalled cardiac massage and the needles stuck into Mrs Smith's arm.

The ambulance arrived in no time at all. Draco's heart hammered as the paramedics hoisted him onto a stretcher and strapped the injured leg down. He let it happen; they probably knew what they were doing, but being restrained didn't help him in the least to calm down.

The ride was short, but dreadful. He needed all his willpower to keep himself from being sick. Unfortunately, the nausea didn't abate once he was in the hospital because the strong smell that lingered everywhere threatened to turn his stomach as well.

While he was wheeled on a trolley from room to room, his surroundings became a blur of bizarre silvery contraptions, computer-like equipment and lots of shiny surfaces. People clad in white checked his pulse and measured his blood pressure. His leg was subjected to X-ray photography. Afterwards, somebody wrapped a plastic bag filled with cold blue jelly around the swollen ankle.

One of the nurses asked his name and address. She reappeared three times, complaining about medical records that she couldn't locate or access or whatever it was she was trying to do with them. He wished she wouldn't trouble him with her problems. His ankle hurt, and he didn't know how to answer her questions about a _general_ _practitioner_. He wasn't acquainted with such a person and repeatedly told her so. She downright refused to believe him. To her, it seemed absolutely impossible that he had never consulted a medical doctor before.

But it was true, and not only in her world. Seeing a healer or going to St Mungo's had never been necessary. His mother's skills had always sufficed. When, where, how and why she had learned healing magic, he didn't know. She was good at it, maybe even on par with Pomfrey.

The school nurse he had seen often, especially during his seventh year. Lack of sleep as well as injuries due to both hexes and physical attacks had made him one of her most frequent patients. She had mended whatever the damage was, but she had always been cold and taciturn with him. Only once, when it had been blatantly clear that the blame for his injury lay with the Carrows rather than with Longbottom's bunch, she had offered a word of consolation.

Here in _Southside_ _County_ _Hospital_, everybody was friendly to him. Not even the nurse in charge of medical records was altogether unkind. The fourth time she showed up she gave him a leaflet about the _National_ _Health_ _Service_ and told him to get registered with a general practitioner as soon as possible because he would benefit from such an arrangement.

...

110. Time Out

He sat on the trolley, waiting for the physician. He knew Doctor Polkinghorne worked elsewhere, but the man was Draco's only example of a medical doctor. That was why he subconsciously expected to meet a similarly overweight and authoritative man in his late fifties. He wasn't the least bit prepared for the woman who walked into the room. She wasn't a day older than thirty, and her white lab coat did a poor job at hiding how shapely she was.

"The good news is that nothing is broken," she said, smiling at Draco through rimless glasses.

She showed him the X-ray photographs. He knew, in theory, what X-ray photography was. Actually seeing the bones of his leg and foot was amazing, even though they were only depicted in various shades of grey.

"However," the gorgeous woman went on, "you've severely sprained the ankle. It may take more than two months for the ligaments to heal completely. Keep that in mind and don't put too much strain on the foot too soon. Rest the leg until the swelling diminishes. Best is resting it higher than the heart. Ice will help reduce the swelling. Apply it for half an hour and wait for about the same amount of time before you apply it again. If you don't have an ice pack, a bag of frozen peas will do nicely."

She pulled up a chair, sat down in front of Draco, and proceeded to fit an ankle brace around his swollen foot. While she worked she explained in minute detail how he could take the thing off when he wished to wash the foot, and how he was to adjust the inflatable pads when the swelling diminished.

He wasn't able to focus on her instructions, though. One thing that distracted him was the pain that flared up at the slightest disturbance, but he was also acutely aware of her hands on his bare calf. He suspected it was due to the latter that he had difficulties breathing.

"Done," she said, her hands leaving his leg. "Sorry if it hurt. I'll give you a pain reliever."

Dumbstruck, he stared at the woman.

He watched her rummage around in a glass-fronted cabinet and fill a glass with water from the tap. He let his gaze travel from her wide hips to her round breasts, then down to her tanned legs and upwards again until it reached her nape and the dark brown hair that was done up in an elegant chignon. She had touched him. She had _touched_ him! His brain seemed out of control. It spun a tale for him, a tale of her hand on his calf, sliding ever so slowly towards the hollow of his knee and then along the inside of his thigh and further on... It spun a mesmerizing tale of her hand wrapping itself firmly around his member.

He was completely and utterly enthralled – and also scared. This wasn't one of his usual bedtime fantasies. This was far too real. The woman was here, in the same room as he was. She had _actually_ touched him... and in a rather private area, too.

She suddenly closed in on him. His pulse accelerating even more, he glanced down at his crotch. Mercifully, his clothes concealed all evidence of his thoughts.

The embarrassment burned in his face nevertheless, and he didn't dare raise his eyes to meet hers. Instead, he stared at the badge she wore on her lab coat._ Doctor_ _V_. _Prewett_ it read.

She was talking again, but he didn't comprehend what she was going on about.

"Mr Malfoy! Do you hear me, Mr Malfoy?"

He cleared his throat. As his tongue seemed to have forgotten how to form words, he settled for nodding.

"Are you all right, Mr Malfoy?"

He nodded again.

"I said you could take one tablet right away. Here you are."

She held out a blister strip, containing ten round, flat pebbles. Other than the ones Mrs Bates had given him when he was ill, these were pink.

He took the strip and fumbled with it to extract a tablet. It didn't work.

All of a sudden, he felt oafish and inadequate. His eyes stung. A low groan escaped him.

"Push it through the aluminium foil," Doctor Prewett said kindly. She had a melodious voice. "You may take up to three tablets a day, but be careful. The most common side effect is sleepiness. Hence, these tablets impair fitness to drive. Don't drive a car while under the influence of that pain reliever."

Finally, the foil broke. He reached for the glass that she had put next to him on the trolley and washed the tablet down. At the same moment, the door opened. Somebody Draco couldn't see yelled, "An apoplexy in number four! Come quickly!"

Doctor Prewett excused herself and was gone before Draco could say a word.

...

"Mr Malfoy!"

Draco blinked as the bright light of fluorescent lamps hit his eyes. He was still in hospital. The nurse who bent over him looked concerned.

"Wake up, Mr Malfoy," she whispered. "The police are here for you."

"_Police_?"

Alarmed, Draco sat up on the trolley.

Worry was unnessecary, though. He relaxed the moment he spotted the two men in uniform. Hovering by the door were Jory and his younger colleague.

Jory introduced them, and Draco and Alan shook hands.

"I'll give you a ride back to the pub. Lowenna arranged for it," Alan grinned. Pointing to Draco's bandaged foot, he added, "And today, you won't run."

"No, I won't," Draco said softly.

He remembered well the morning three years ago. Insanely afraid of the offered ride, he had fled despite the many blisters on his feet. He was still uneasy about climbing into a car, but there was no other option.

Jory and Alan showed Draco how to use the crutches that the nurse had brought. Flanked by the two men, Draco made his way slowly out of the building and toward the police car. Alan helped him get into the backseat, and Jory buckled up Draco's seatbelt. Draco didn't protest; he had read somewhere that it was compulsory to wear such a strap.

The car rushed through the night. Alan, who sat behind the steering wheel, was busy driving and didn't say much. Jory asked Draco how he felt.

"Exhausted," Draco admitted. The day had been taxing. He was tired even though he had napped. "Thank you for taking me back to the pub."

"Not at all. We have to patrol anyway," Jory replied. Then he asked where Draco lived when he wasn't in Trethwyn, how he usually got there, and when term would start.

Draco was taken aback at the open curiosity but answered the questions truthfully.

"It's obvious that you can't walk back," Jory said when Alan brought the car to a halt in front of _The_ _Merry_ _Fisherman_. "But don't worry. We'll get the problem sorted out."

The men helped Draco climb the stairs to his room. Mrs Gill, concerned and trying to be helpful, joined them almost immediately. She had already heard of Draco's accident; Lowenna, the woman from the tourist office, had seen it fit to inform her.

Jory and Alan didn't dally; they had to carry on with patrolling. Upon parting, Draco got an encouraging pat on the shoulder from Jory and a grin and playful wink from Alan. Draco was too weary to care whether or not that man was making fun of him.

Mrs Gill proposed to bring Draco a Ploughman's Lunch, but he declined. He wasn't hungry.

He dragged himself to the bathroom after she had left, and when he came back half an hour later, he found a cup of cocoa sitting on the bedside table.

...

Mrs Gill brought him plastic bags filled with crushed ice several times a day. Following her instructions, he put them on the injured foot.

She also brought all of his meals to his room.

He poked at the food listlessly. He was too tired to eat. In fact, he was too tired to do anything at all. Only travelling to the loo he couldn't avoid. In between these journeys and washing down another pain-relieving tablet, he slept. He was even too lethargic to wonder why he was so sleepy all the time. Lulled by the steady tap, tap, tap of the rain against the windowpane, he nodded off before any clear thought could form in his brain.

He felt considerably better on Saturday. The swelling, and with it the pain, had abated. That was a good thing because he had used up all the medicine.

He shaved for the first time since Tuesday and spent an hour on adjusting the bandage. He remembered well how gorgeous the physician had been but, unfortunately, very little of what she had said.

In the evening, Mrs Gill told him to pack. Jory would take him to the city the next day.

...

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to be continued

...

Author's note:

(1) Tariff points are used by _The_ _Universities_ _and_ _Colleges_ _Admissions_ _Service_ (UCAS_)_ to compare the various qualifications of people who apply for undergraduate courses in the United Kingdom.

(2) Thanks go to my beta readers for their help and support.


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